HERSELF 


"I'm  waiting  to  jump  at  him  —  oh,"  she  cried,  blushing,  "I  don't 

know  what  I'm  at  to-night.     I  am  not  like  this  with  a 

stranger  man  at  common  times  " 


HERSELF 


BY 


ETHEL  SIDGWICK 


AUTHOR    OF    "PROMISE,"     "  LE    GENTLEMAN*' 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   1912 
BY  SMALL,   MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


Second  Edition,  January, 
Third  Edition,  April,  ig /j 
Fourth  Edition,  January, 


I 
PRKSSWORK  BY  THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 


PAGE 

VERSAILLES  3 


PART  II 
FAROVER I91 

PART  III 
HIMSELF  397 


421745 


PART  I 
VERSAILLES 


HERSELF 


A  FAST-DARKENING  December  day,  and  a  little 
Englishwoman  the  solitary  figure  on  a  vast  and 
melancholy  stage,  the  royal  gardens  of  Versailles. 
The  note  of  the  scene  was  faded  splendor:  above, 
where  the  winter  sunset  died  strangled  among  level 
clouds,  with  barely  an  effort  for  life,  still  less  for 
beauty:  below,  where  long- accumulated  damp 
dripped  from  the  trees  on  ranks  of  statue  and  foun- 
tain,—  frivolous,  beautiful,  profane,  and  all  of 
wasteful  marble.  They  looked  piteous  enough, 
those  fair,  half-clad  shapes  of  nymph  and  goddess, 
seeming  to  shrink  for  mere  comfort  into  the  shelter 
of  the  serried  woods.  They  needed  encouragement 
in  these  dull  democratic  times  to  flaunt  as  they  had 
of  old,  and  encouragement  they  had  none.  Their 
customary  admirers  passed  them  by,  lifting  the 
furs  about  their  chins  or  turning  up  the  collars  of 
their  coats,  as  they  hurried  homeward  from  their 
afternoon's  occupation,  an  inspection  of  the  half- 
frozen  lake.  The  splendors  of  Louis  Quatorze's 


4  .         . ...  ]  ....    PERSE  LF 

waterworks  were  good  for  naught,  in  these  worthy 
folks'  opinion,  if  not  to  give  them  skating;  and  in 
the  late  contention  of  cold  and  rain,  rain  had  still 
too  evidently  the  upper  hand. 

"  Tant  pis,"  muttered  the  mondaines  of  Ver- 
sailles ;  and  turned  their  practical  minds  to  cakes  and 
tea,  and  the  streets  gaily  lighted  for  Christmas  week 
which  twinkled  to  them  from  afar. 

Meanwhile  the  little  Englishwoman,  abandoned 
by  all,  stood  breathless  in  a  glade,  and  addressed  the 
mistletoe  above  her  head,  which  for  twenty  minutes 
past  she  had  been  vainly  maneuvering  to  reach. 

"  Very  well,"  she  soliloquized.  "  You  think  you 
have  got  the  better  of  me,  being  the  last  thing  I  tried 
for  this  day,  and  left  me  wanting  all.  But,  think  as 
you  will,  I'll  not  spend  a  penny  to  buy  you  in  the 
street.  You're  no  use  at  all,  you're  nothing  but 
green-and-white  sentiment,  and  bought  in  a  market 
you're  not  even  that.  If  I  had  torn  you  with  my 
hands,  I  might  have  liked  it,  but  it  would  not  have 
changed  the  facts.  What's  Christmas,  when  your 
face  is  aching  and  your  heart  as  well?  What's 
Christmas,  anyway,  out  of  the  countries  that  in- 
vented it?  I  defy  you,  plant;  yes,  and  I'll  spite  you 
too.  F6r  see :  " —  She  made  a  dart  into  the  bushes, 
and  extended  triumphant,  as  though  calling  her  ad- 
versary to  witness,  a  mossy  lump  of  wood.  "  That's 
a  log,"  she  said  gravely.  "  It's  my  log,  what's  more, 


VERSAILLES  5 

gathered  here  while  you  outfaced  me.  And  facts 
may  stare  as  they  will,  I'll  have  a  real  fire  to  burn 
my  log,  all  for  myself  alone,  to-morrow  being 
Christmas  Eve." 

Ladies  who  soliloquize  are  rare,  and  pure  English 
ladies  rarer;  and  to  the  attentive  listener  the  voice 
of  this  person  —  a  tired  little  timbre  it  had,  even 
when  she  was  at  her  liveliest  —  might  have  been 
perceived  to  bear  an  accent :  a  lilt  or  song  of  a  corner 
of  that  island  which  is  least  English  of  the  three. 
A  native  of  Kerry  would  have  claimed  the  voice,  yet 
stood  in  doubt;  for  the  manner  of  other  lands  had 
overlaid  it,  and  it  was  more  a  reminiscence  than  an 
actuality.  Some  of  the  expressive  gesture  of  France 
went  with  it,  and  withal  a  faint  American  blurr 
upon  the  "  r's."  But  the  whole  speech  had  a  humor- 
ous decision  which  blent  all  into  a  character,  quite 
at  war  with  the  fatigued  indifference  that  hung  on 
voice  and  utterance.  Or  so  it  seemed  to  a  bearded 
Englishman  of  middle  age  who  overheard. 

It  is  perhaps  the  doom  of  those  who  soliloquize, 
in  whatever  theater,  to  be  overheard:  still  more  of 
those  who  soliloquize  in  an  ancient  palace-ground 
of  whisper  and  intrigue.  The  avenues  of  Versailles 
are  bold  indeed,  wide  enough  each  for  a  regiment, 
and  cut  sheer  through  the  landscape  in  a  garden 
where  the  measurements  are  miles;  but  the  little 
paths  are  crooked  and  secretive,  the  bosquets  haunted 


6  HERSELF 

by  phantoms  of  cunning  courtiers  and  lurking  gal- 
lants, and  ladies  whose  cheeks  even  now  in  ghost- 
hood  would  flame  at  a  glance.  It  is  contended  that 
the  last  of  that  flower-band  died  great  deaths:  and 
doubtless  there  are  nobler  ghosts  to  be  sought  in  the 
prison-cells  of  old  Paris;  but  it  is  still  less  to  be 
doubted  that  many  who  so  died  had  lost,  even  for 
generations,  the  art  to  live  with  dignity. 

The  Englishman,  whose  short  cloak  and  pointed 
beard  gave  him  a  vaguely  Elizabethan  aspect,  and 
who  was  lanky  and  hollow-eyed  as  one  of  the  ghosts 
himself,  had  given  little  thought  to  the  girl  at  first. 
He  was  meditating,  or  drinking  in  an  atmosphere,  as 
he  doubtless  would  have  put  it.  If  he  was  drinking 
in  rheumatic  damp  as  well,  it  was  so  much  the  worse 
for  his  joints.  He  was  watch  in  hand,  for  he  had  a 
train  to  catch,  and  was  staying  out  the  uttermost 
hour  in  the  gardens  before  they  closed  for  the  night. 
He  was  not  even  sure,  so  heavily  the  accumulated 
languor  of  the  place  weighed  upon  him,  that  he 
would  not  miss  the  train,  and  ignore  the  gates,  and 
spend  the  night  as  now  in  dreaming  of  the  significant 
rich  past  he  loved.  No  one  in  Paris  would  miss  him, 
to  signify.  Pat  Morough  might  swear  a  little,  when 
he  looked  in  from  the  upper  floor  at  ten  to  chatter. 
Madame  Rochette  might  scold  him  next  day,  while 
she  cooked  his  Christmas  dinner:  but  provided  she 
cooked  him  a  good  one  — 


VERSAILLES  7 

Here  his  attention  was  distracted  by  the  girl's 
dialogue  with  the  mistletoe,  and  he  became  amused 
to  such  a  degree  that  the  spelt  of  the  gardens  fell  off 
him. 

"Who's  the  voice  like?"  he  took  to  reflecting 
instead.  "  Who  the  devil  —  by  all  the  attendant 
powers,  could  it  be?  " 

Then  the  girl  turned  aside,  one  slight,  bare  hand 
raised  pathetically  to  her  cheek,  a  light  frown  of 
pain  —  or  strain  —  upon  her  brow.  He  rose  behind 
his  bush,  and  "  Madam,  may  I  — "  was  beginning, 
when  the  phrase  was  cut  off  by  her  speaking  again. 
This  time,  emerging  to  the  open,  she  addressed  the 
view,  dimly  sketched  in  gray  and  blue  at  the  extreme 
limit  of  the  vista. 

"  Beautiful,"  she  said,  still  with  that  subdued 
vivacity,  in  that  weary  little  voice.  "  Beautiful, 
beautiful,  but  I  see  right  through  you  now.  It's  a 
mad  poet  I'd  be  watching  you,  or  a  practical  person: 
and  you've  made  me  that  among  you.  I'll  be  it  in 
good  earnest  after  this.  I'm  little  and  poor,  am  I 
not?  Madeleine  off  home  without  a  word  to  me, 
and  mistletoe  out  of  reach,  and  a  dentist  to-morrow 
on  Christmas  Eve,  do  you  hear?  —  with  the  Christ- 
mas money  to  pay  him.  But  I'm  better  than  you, 
than  all  of  you :  for  I'm  living  and  fit  for  life.  Dead 
things,  bonnie  and  dead  and  done  for:  I'll  look  at 
you,  and  laugh  at  you,  and  love  you,  but  I  shall  not 


8  HERSELF 

keep.  No," —  she  raised  the  log  she  held  as  though 
to  threaten  them, —  "  you  are  uncollectable." 

She  stopped  on  the  queer  word,  flung  a  glance  up- 
ward, and  shadowed  another  un-English  gesture. 

"  Like  the  mistletoe  I  wanted,"  she  said  plain- 
tively. "  Good  night." 

It  was  the  same  queer  word  that  visibly  decided 
Geoffry  Horn.  He  stepped  out  of  the  encumbering 
leaves  and  mould,  to  the  footway  that  rang  to  his 
steps  and  disclosed  him. 

"  That  bough  at  least  is  collectable,  Miss  Clench, 
to  anything  over  five-feet-ten.  Will  you  permit 
me?"  he  said.  He  colored  too,  for  he  was  a  shy 
man,  and  much  afraid  of  alarming  such  a  slight 
little  shadow  as  she  was. 

She  stopped  and  gripped  a  hand  to  her  side,  but 
faced  him  squarely  with  steady  eyes.  One  would 
have  judged  this  girl  had  already  met  adventure. 
"  Who  are  you?  "  she  said,  assenting  so  as  to  avoid 
the  least  rudeness.  "  Have  I  seen  you?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  have  had  the  advantage, 
though  I  assure  you,  inadvertently.  I  was  mooning 
here  in  ambush  when  you  came.  I  know  your  cousin 
in  Paris,"  he  added,  as  she  still  gazed  steadily  under 
a  strained  brow.  "  Your  cousin  Patrick  —  Kath- 
leen's son." 

"  Kathleen's  son,"  she  echoed  him,  seeking  as  it 


VERSAILLES  9 

were  for  light  in  a  fog  of  new  and  rapid  impressions. 
"  What,  and  you  knew  Kathleen?  " 

"  No,"  said  Horn  again,  "  nor  Brian  either.  They 
are  names  to  me  both,  only  familiar  names." 

"  They  would  be,"  said  the  girl.  "  Yet  you  know 
I  am  Brian's  daughter,  so  it  seems?  " 

"  I  guessed  it.    Was  I  too  bold  to  guess?  " 

"But  how?" 

"  I  had  heard  there  was  a  daughter  at  school  in 
France.  But  I  think  it  was  really  the  word  you 
spoke.  The  Clenches  say  collectable." 

"  I,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  do  not  use  it  as  the 
Clenches  do.  They  take  it  for  beauty,  I  for  use.  I 
am  not  of  the  true  breed,  do  not  think  it.  I  am  born 
to  be  useful,  and  collect  nothing  and  nobody  that 
cannot  help  me."  The  frown,  as  she  spoke  with 
anxious  energy,  was  deepening  on  her  troubled  little 
brow.  "  I  have  not  long,"  she  said,  "  for  the  gates 
will  be  closing,  and  I've  work  to  do.  Will  you  tell 
me  who  you  are?  " 

"  My  name  is  Horn,  at  your  service." 

"Horn?  I  have  not  heard  of  you?"  She  still 
seemed  searching 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  The  records  lack 
my  name.  In  truth,  Miss  Clench,  I  am  nothing  to 
the  family.  But  I  live  for  the  moment  on  the  floor 
below  Pat," —  he  offered  the  address, — "  and 


10  HERSELF 

"  So  you'll  be  caring  for  him,"  she  finished. 
"  Patrick's  a  Clench,  sir,  is  he  not?  " 

"I'd  not  dare  to  gainsay  it."    Mr.  Horn  laughed. 

"  It's  kind  of  you  to  look  after  him,"  said  the  girl. 
"  All  alone  there  so  long,  the  poor  boy.  How  old  is 
he?  —  but  I  should  know.  Nineteen  is  it?  — 
Twenty?  —  Well,  yes,  that  will  do."  She  gathered 
up  her  scarf  with  a  business-like  air.  "  You  must  let 
me  see  to  him,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  little  hand  in 
a  worn  merino  glove.  "  It's  very  good  of  you,  but 
I'll  have  the  time  for  that." 

GeofTry  laughed  again,  and  took  the  hand.  "  The 
clan  spirit  is  magnificent,"  he  said.  "  I  marvel  how 
old  you  are,"  he  was  thinking;  and,  since  she  had 
come  near,  quite  cursed  the  fading  light. 

"  Oh,  I'm  used  to  them,"  said  Miss  Clench,  with 
her  first  demure  smile.  "  I  am  even  in  training  for 
the  profession." 

"You'll  excuse  me:  you  mean  Brian  —  your 
father  is  already  in  your  charge?  " 

"Brian  has  been:  and  he  will  again."  She 
stopped.  "  Brian's  in  America,  gone  West  for  the 
present,"  she  said,  and  turned  suddenly  as  if  to  go. 

"  You  have  not  got  that  mistletoe,"  said  Horn. 

"  Leave  it,"  she  said.     "  It's  prettier  there." 

"  But  you  shall  have  it.  Would  you  be  beaten  by 
a  bough?" 

He  leapt;  and  whether  or  no  indignation  lent  his  \ 


VERSAILLES  11 

lanky  form  agility,  he  caught  and  brought  it  down, 
a  fine  wreath  white  with  berries.  As  he  extended  it, 
the  girl  put  her  hands  behind  her. 

"  I  am  beaten,"  she  said,  "  just  the  same.  I  stood 
conquered  there  and  miscalled  it.  You  must  have 
heard  me." 

"  Take  it  as  a  gift  then,"  he  entreated.  "  Or  a 
lesson  —  what  you  will." 

"  I'll  take  it  as  a  lesson,  thank  you."  She  seized 
it  in  her  gloved  hand  daintily.  "  It's  as  grand  a  bit 
as  I've  seen,"  said  little  Miss  Clench,  with  a  grateful 
smile. 

"  What  is  the  lesson4?  "  Geoff ry  pressed  to  detain 
her. 

"  Only  it's  poor  to  abuse  a  thing  you  cannot 
catch.  I  might  as  well  abuse  Brian,  mightn't  I,  or 
anybody?  " 

"  Are  you  trying  to  catch  him?  " 

"I'm  waiting  to  jump  at  him  —  oh,"  she  cried, 
blushing,  "I  don't  know  what  I'm  at  to-night.  I 
am  not  like  this,  with  a  stranger  man,  at  common 
times." 

"  I  am  a  stranger  man,"  said  Horn.  "  Very  good : 
we  English  always  must  be  that,  to  such  as  Clenches. 
Your  cousin  also  says  I  must  sleep  on  a  haycock 
under  nine  new  moons  before  I  can  try  to  under- 
stand." 
„  "  Did  Patrick  say  that?  "  She  hesitated,  sway- 


12  HERSELF 

ing,  her  eyes  on  him.  "I  must  see  him,"  she  re- 
solved, "  and  soon.  He  will  be  like  the  others. 
Only  —  I  am  not." 

"  You  repeat  it,"  said  Geoffry.  "  Perhaps  it 
needs  repeating." 

"  It  does,  a  thousand  times.  You'd  best  tell 
Patrick  that  from  me,  Mr.  Horn,  before  we  meet." 
Again  she  wavered  a  minute.  "  You  know  him," 
she  said.  "  Is  he  poor*?  " 

"  He  is  living  on  an  allowance  from  his  step- 
father." 

"  Since  Kathleen's  death.  Did  she  leave  him 
nothing?" 

"  I  doubt  if  there  was  anything  to  leave."  He 
watched  her,  wondering  what  she  had  been  told. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  We  wronged 
them  both  in  taking  it,  we  did,  indeed." 

"  You  did  not,  surely,"  GeofTry  said.  He 
thought,  "  You  can  hardly  have  been  born." 

"  I  did,"  the  girl  said  sharply.  "It's  all  on  me, 
since  I  am  made  like  that,  tfhey  never  think  of 
money  things  —  it's  they  that  live  happy  without ! 
Now  I  am  sure  Pat  never  mentioned  that  to  you." 

"  He  did  not,  no;  but  facts  were  easy  to  divine." 

"  Tou're  made  that  way  also,"  she  said  wistfully. 
"  You  think  it  matters  —  well,  there  must  be  some." 
Once  more  she  gathered  her  woolen  scarf  about  her, 
and  settled  the  bough  and  log  as  if  to  go. 


VERSAILLES  13 

"There's  still  ten  minutes/'  he  protested  as 
she  moved.  He  felt  a  terrible  charm  in  her 
Celtic  tongue,  emerging  from  the  half -dark  of  the 
glade. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  "  but  I've  neuralgia, 
and  it's  silly  to  stay  out  when  one  need  not."  Her 
tired  little  voice  was  almost  childish,  and  GeofTry's 
heart  had  a  sudden  pang.  What  was  she  —  this 
lonely  little  woman?  Where  was  she  going  — 
what  was  her  life?  On  whom,  most  important  ques- 
tion of  all,  did  she  depend?  Her  charming,  worth- 
less father  "  gone  West,"  her  father's  only  sister 
dead,  her  mother  —  he  remembered  Patrick's  stories, 
of  which  "  Brian  "  was  ever  the  hero,  only  with  a 
changing  heroine.  Of  which  of  Brian's  many  flames 
was  this  careworn  child  the  daughter?  If  indeed 
she  was  a  child  and  not  an  old  woman,  or  a  spirit  of 
the  twilit  woods. 

"  I  may  accompany  you,  may  I  not?  "  said  Horn, 
having  assured  himself  by  a  glance  at  the  watch 
that  he  had  missed  his  train. 

"  It  is  better  not,"  Brian's  daughter  replied  with 
decision.  "  You'll  excuse  me,  but  one  knows  a 
provincial  town." 

"  You  have  been  here  long?  "  He  feared  to  seem 
too  curious,  feeling  himself  watched.  It  amused 
him  though  that  he  could  be  watched,  for  he  seemed 
a  mere  grandfather  beside  her. 


14  HERSELF 

"  Four  years,"  she  said.  "  I've  plenty  of  ac- 
quaintance. Good  night,  sir,  I  will  write." 

"  Plenty  of  acquaintance,  and  all  willing  to  say 
ill  of  you,"  thought  Horn.  "Miss  Clench,"  he 
called  after  her,  "  I'm  forty-five." 

"Are  you?"  She  laughed  again.  "That's 
Brian's  age,"  but  still  she  moved  away. 

Horn  reflected  that  she  could  not  be  much  over 
twenty,  in  that  case. 

"  May  I  give  Patrick  your  address? "  he  said 
aloud,  moving  gently  in  her  wake.  Against  the 
light  she  had  a  delicate  light  little  figure,  and  Horn, 
oblivious  of  woolen  scarfs  and  mended  gloves  and 
such  details  noted  only  by  a  female  eye,  was  con- 
vinced she  was  well-dressed.  Later,  he  emphasized 
it  in  his  description  to  Pat  Morough,  and  misled  him 
naturally. 

As  for  Brian's  daughter,  she  called  her  address  to 
him  from  fifty  paces,  and  Horn,  anxious  for  every 
crumb,  noted  two  more  points  about  her.  She  pro- 
nounced the  names  elegantly  and  used  French  for 
the  numbers;  also,  her  voice,  pitched  to  suit  the  dis- 
tance, changed  and  deepened  surprisingly,  and  rang 
bell-like  through  the  woods. 

GeofTry  waited  until  she  had  disappeared,  and 
then  wiped  his  brow  as  though  the  dialogue  had 
heated  him,  and  hurried,  at  an  angle  with  the  path 
she  had  taken,  towards  the  nearest  gate. 


II 


HE  plunged  into  history  with  Morough  that  even- 
ing. He  found  the  boy  in  his  rooms,  looking  rather 
sad  and  tired,  but  he  roused  to  life  and  interest  on 
learning  of  his  friend's  adventure. 

"It's  the  actress's  daughter  she'll  be,"  said  Pat, 
who  had  history  at  his  fingers'  ends.  "  Just  like  my 
luck  to  find  her.  My  luck's  sure,  when  I'm  not  look- 
ing for  it."  ("  For-ut,"  Pat  said,  for  he  had  a  slight 
advantage  in  brogue  over  his  cousin,  though  he  could 
at  will  speak  excellent  English.)  "  And  must  I 
wait  for  her  to  write,  Horn,  or  go  straight  to  her  in 
the  morning?  " 

"  You'll  wait,  to  be  sure.  She  is  in  no  such 
hurry."  Pat  looked  depressed  again  for  a  minute, 
but  revived  anew  when  pressed  by  question. 

"The  actress  was  an  ordinary  woman,  they  say, 
but  terribly  in  love  with  Brian.  I  dare  say  she  was 
clever  too." 

"  She  made  him  marry  her,"  said  Horn. 

"She  did,"  said  Pat,  "where  many  a  better 
woman  failed.  He  stopped  with  her  too,  for  years, 


16  HERSELF 

so  it's  to  be  supposed  she  had  charm :  pretty,  they  do 
not  say.  That  was  in  New  York,  where  this  girleen 
was  born.  But  one  remark  of  Mrs.  Brian's  has  come 
down,  and  it's  not  worth  the  preserving." 

"What  was  that,  Pat'?" 

:£ '  Brian's  a  perfect  daisy,'  she  informed  some- 
body. *  I'd  go  with  him  to  the  world's  end  for  a 
look,  and  gladly :  but  he  is  a  strain.' ' 

"  That  shows  her  cuteness,  I  should  think." 

"  It  shows  her  ordinary  mind.  But  there,"  said 
Pat  with  compassion.  "  You  never  saw  himself." 

"  Did  you  see  Brian?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  did,  the  last  year  of  my  poor 
mother's  life." 

"  Ah,"  said  Geoffry.     "  Was  he  hovering  then?  " 

"  He  was  in  Dublin  for  the  moment,"  replied 
Pat,  with  some  dignity.  "  He  was  persuaded  with 
trouble  to  come  to  us,  and  must  have  stayed  for 
about  seven  months.  He  has  not  been  to  Europe 
since  that." 

"  It  was  that  visit,  I  presume,  he  brought  the  girl 
to  school." 

"  Doubtless  it  was,  after  he  had  left  us.  We  saw 
no  girl,  not  a  flutter  of  her,  up  there.  To  see  him 
and  Kathleen  together,  ah,  they  were  heart  and  soul ! 
She  told  me  often  I  was  like  him,  and  me  believing 
it,  little  cockerel  that  I  was."  Pat  fell  into  medita- 
tion, leaning  above  the  fire:  and  Horn's  mind 


VERSAILLES  17 

attacked  the  shadowed  history,  his  eyes  resting  on 
the  boy's  face. 

He  knew  enough  of  Brian  Clench  to  feel  how 
untrue  the  glamour  was.  The  glamour  rose  from 
personality,  doubtless,  and  the  person  was  unknown 
to  him :  but  try  as  he  would,  Horn  could  not  believe. 

Kathleen  Morough,  spoken  of  invariably  by  her 
camp-following  as  a  princess,  he  knew  at  second- 
hand: not  through  her  son's  lips,  though  Pat  pos- 
sessed a  portrait,  but  by  those  of  an  acquaintance  he 
could  trust.  She  had  been  an  ill-clad  rather  weedy 
woman$  with  hair  irregularly  parted  and  always 
half-down,  and  beautiful  eyes.  She  kept  open 
house  in  Dublin  for  all  the  Clench  contingent,  and 
her  husband  by  the  way.  She  spoke  in  an  impetuous 
flood  on  all  subjects,  whether  she  was  capable  of 
speaking  or  not.  She  had  an  inborn  feeling  for 
poetry,  played  well  and  sculptured  badly.  She  was 
an  ardent  and  one-sided  politician,  having  through- 
out youth  shared  her  twin-brother's  views  and 
adopted  his  phrases.  With  both,  politics  and  poetry 
ran  together,  so  closely  intermingled,  that  it  was 
hard  to  say  which  was  which.  She  was  lazy  in  her 
household,  which  was  in  any  case  needy  enough, 
careless  of  her  husband's  comfort,  and  grossly 
neglectful  of  her  child.  This  child  in  consequence, 
by  the  logic  of  the  Clenches,  adored  her,  cried  his 
eyes  out  when  she  forgot  to  kiss  him  good  night,  and 


18  HERSELF 

listened  to  all  her  rigmaroles  wide-eyed  and  credu- 
lous. On  Morough's  death  Kathleen  remarried 
without  delay  or  difficulty,  choosing  at  random 
apparently  an  unsuccessful  and  unattractive  man. 
She  brought  him  a  small  fortune,  which  melted 
mysteriously  before  Brian  left  for  America.  Her 
second  husband,  a  bank-clerk  with  some  inkling  of 
business,  tried  for  months  to  find  out  whether  the 
considerable  sum  that  had  vanished,  and  was  surely 
in  Brian's  pocket,  had  been  borrowed,  begged,  or 
stolen.  He  arrived  at  nothing  but  floods  of  pretty 
eloquence  from  his  wife,  setting  forth  Brian  as  the 
heart  of  her,  and  any  private  possession  between 
them  as  out  of  the  question.  Pat's  stepfather  Mr. 
Long  came  to  the  opinion  that  she  literally  did  not 
know  either  how  or  why  the  money  had  gone,  and 
that  Pat,  a  schoolboy  of  fifteen,  was  equally  igno- 
rant. He  rated  Pat,  for  not  having  more  heed  to  his 
mother  during  Mr.  Long's  business  hours,  but  —  as 
seemed  inevitable  —  he  forgave  Kathleen.  Accord- 
ing to  Pat,  the  dull  husband  watched  over  his  wife's 
last  illness,  contagious  as  it  was  known  to  be,  night 
and  day.  Of  the  manner  of  her  death  the  boy  was 
ignorant;  for  at  a  crisis  of  her  illness  she  called  him 
to  her  in  a  rush  of  sentiment,  and  he  not  unnaturally 
caught  the  fever  from  her.  All  he  could  be  sure  of 
was,  that  in  his  own  subsequent  and  desperate  illness 
none  came  near  him  but  a  hired  servant,  who 


VERSAILLES  19 

invented  endless  lies  to  keep  the  truth  from  the 
feverish,  half- frantic  boy;  the  plain  truth  being  that 
Kathleen  was  dead  and  buried,  and  her  husband 
stunned  with  sheer  grief.  Later,  when  Pat  recov- 
ered, and  became  a  pale,  sad  phantom  round  the 
house,  Long  took  an  aversion  to  him,  and  paid  what 
he  could  to  keep  him  at  distant  schools.  The  boy 
had,  so  far  as  Horn  could  discover,  never  had  a  home. 
He  had  had  no  education  to  mention,  or  only  of  the 
most  partial  kind.  He  called  himself  a  Catholic,  but 
was  nearer  to  pure  and  perfect  paganism  than  any 
mortal  Horn  had  ever  met.  The  music  of  his  mother's 
tongue  had  been  all  art  to  him,  her  face  all  religion. 
He  had  been,  as  much  as  a  precocious  boy  of  fifteen 
could  be,  in  love  with  Kathleen  Morough,  and  spoke 
of  her  sometimes  in  a  manner  almost  to  shock  the 
experienced  bohemian  Horn  thought  himself  to  be. 
According  to  her  son,  Kathleen  had  broken  all  hearts 
in  Dublin  that  Brian  had  not  collected;  and  Brian, 
that  fine,  earth-scouring  freebooter,  was  the  one  soul 
left  in  the  world  that  could  restore  him  to  full  life 
and  his  lost  ideals. 

Pending  this  hoped-for  millennium  of  his  uncle's 
return,  Pat  Morough  was  tossed  about  from  Ireland 
to  England,  and  England  to  France,  a  delicate 
feckless  boy,  falling  in  and  out  of  love  and  scrapes 
alike  with  astonishing  ease,  variously  and  irreg- 
ularly gifted,  and  lovable  enough  in  himself  to 


20  HERSELF 

demonstrate  the  family  attraction,  even  to  a  sceptic 
like  Geoffry  Horn. 

The  manner  of  their  meeting  had  been  as  casual 
and  as  picturesque  as  any  Clench  could  wish  to  in- 
vent. Horn,  who  had  his  small  but  comfortable 
rooms  on  the  third-floor  of  a  house  in  the  Boulevard 
du  Montparnasse,  had  been  dimly  conscious  of  the 
presence  about  the  public  staircase  of  a  sickly-looking 
lad,  dressed  in  odd  garments  of  an  old-world  air,  and 
always  to  be  seen  with  companions  who  looked 
worse,  in  every  sense,  than  himself.  He  was  aware 
of  women  too,  from  time  to  time,  and  he  called  the 
gang  privately  "  the  ragged  company."  Walking 
one  February  evening  by  the  quays  near  the  Pont 
des  Arts,  he  noticed  a  mass  of  people  hanging  over 
the  bridge  and  pressing  to  the  river-side.  Being  a 
capable  Parisian  and  knowing  his  crowd,  he  rapidly 
gathered  the  occurrence.  Some  woman  had  leapt  — 
a  not  unprecedented  event  —  from  the  bridge  into 
the  water.  A  little  knot  had  seen  her  go.  A  young 
man,  walking  from  another  direction,  and  having  no 
connection,  apparently,  with  "  cette  infortunee," 
had  leapt  also,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the  Seine 
was  enjoying  its  periodic  flood,  and  the  woman,  who 
had  been  whirled  under  at  once  by  the  current,  was 
long  past  human  aid.  Owing  to  the  efforts  of  some 
watermen,  aided  by  happy  chance,  the  young  maniac 
had  been  caught  and  dragged  to  land;  and  Geoff ry, 


VERSAILLES  21 

elbowing  to  the  center  of  the  interested  throng, 
recognized  the  pale  face  of  the  leader  of  his  ragged 
company.  The  lamplight  glinted  on  a  tragic  mask 
of  youth,  streaked  over  with  wet  hair:  and  in 
all  directions  — "  Comme  il  est  beau,"  the  women 
of  the  street  were  muttering.  Horn  took  steps  at 
once,  dragooned  the  police  in  a  manner  he  could 
assume  at  will,  gave  the  names  of  government  au- 
thorities as  his  reference,  and  bore  the  boy,  so  soon 
as  he  showed  signs  of  recovery,  off  in  a  carriage  to  his 
own  rooms.  There,  with  good  brandy  and  hot  soup, 
Horn  and  his  housekeeper  brought  him  round;  and 
by  his  fire,  towards  the  small  hours,  Pat  Morough's 
tongue  was  loosened  to  tell  his  tale. 

Horn  had  at  the  time  no  idea,  and  was  barely  yet 
certain,  how  much  of  the  tale  was  true.  Ordinary 
people  and  dingy  events  took  great  and  spreading 
forms  to  the  mind  of  a  Clench :  and  Pat's  tongue  led 
him  to  diversions  that  were  invariably  beautiful, 
touching,  or  funny,  even  when  they  baffled  credulity. 
The  boy  was  evidently  plagued  with  an  imagination 
that  had  never  been  pruned,  directed,  or  repressed. 
At  his  best  he  talked  like  a  wit  or  a  poet:  at  his 
weakest  he  lost  himself  in  an  orgie  of  words.  His 
eyes,  expressive  as  those  of  an  animal,  would  seem 
meanwhile  to  be  beseeching  his  auditor  to  pull  him 
out  of  his  tongue's  entanglement.  Pat  hardly  knew 
what  a  statement  was,  and  could  rarely  get  one 


22  HERSELF 

believed;  for  the  simple  reason  that  in  the  very  act 
of  making  one,  his  imagination  would  suggest  — 

"  And  if  the  contrary  were  true ,"  and,  by  the 

wavering  of  his  eyes,  and  loss  of  conviction  in  his 
tone,  his  fact  would  lose  most  of  its  value. 

Horn,  half-laughing,  half-irritated,  set  him  at  last 
to  a  simple  catechism. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  originally*?  " 

"  West  of  the  west,"  said  Pat.  "  But  my  father 
settled  in  Dublin,  and  it  was  there  my  mother 
married." 

"  You  come  from  Dublin,"  said  GeofTry  firmly. 

"  My  mother  married  twice,"  said  Pat. 

"  But  I  suppose  you  had  only  one  father.  What 
was  his  name?  " 

"  Morough  was  his  name,  and  Clench  was  hers. 
You'll  have  heard  of  the  Clenches  of  Kildarling?  " 

"  I  shall  have  heard  of  them,"  thought  Geoffry, 
"  in  a  week's  time.  How  long  since  your  mother 
married  first,  Mr.  Morough?  " 

Pat  soon  reckoned  it  as  five-and-twenty  years. 
Four  children  were  born  of  her,  and  her  not  ask- 
ing for  them.  It  was  little  time  that  she  had  for 
children. 

"  Where  are  your  brothers  and  sisters  then?  " 

"  Under  the  Irish  soil  with  her,"  said  Pat,  "  where 
I  hope  I'll  be  some  day." 

"  No  thanks  to  yourself  you  are  not  under  Seine 


VERSAILLES  23 

mud,"  said  Geoffry  severely.  "  What  possessed  you 
to  jump,  with  nothing  to  guide  you*?  " 

"  How  should  Pat  not  jump?  That  had  been  a 
pretty  girl,  they  said." 

"  Did  you  know  her?  " 

Pat  could  not  be  sure.  He  had  a  wide  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  To  judge  from  those  I've  seen,"  said  Horn, 
assuming  the  schoolmaster  with  lessening  scruple, 
"  the  people  you  know  are  not  worthy  of  you.  You 
come  of  a  decent  family." 

Pat  went  off  at  once.  "  It's  they  would  be  glad 
at  heart  to  hear  an  Englishman  call  them  decent! 
When  you  call  the  great  big  mountains  well  laid-out, 
or  the  pattern  of  the  stars  a  nice  design " 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  said  Geoff ry. 

He  supposed  —  very  sulkily  —  that  he  was 
twenty. 

"  Where  have  you  been  at  school?  " 

He  named  two  or  three  schools,  and  two  or  three 
priests,  and  then,  to  Horn's  surprise,  London 
University. 

"  What  did  you  do  there?  "  he  said. 

"  I  heard  classes  for  a  time  there,  until  I  came 
away.  It  was  at  the  wish  of  Mr.  Long,  my  mother's 
other  husband,  that  I  did  it.  You  see,"  said  Pat 
quite  innocently,  "  I  am  to  be  a  schoolmaster  next 
year." 


24  HERSELF 

"A  schoolmaster!  My  good  fellow,  what  will 
you  teach*?  " 

The  youth  had  a  gleam  of  gravity  and  reason. 
"I'll  teach  what  I  can  do,  and  that's  drawing,"  he 
said.  Then,  turning  his  soft  eyes  on  Geoffry — 
"  You'd  have  no  influence  in  the  schools  over  there, 
would  you*?  " 

"  Over  there,"  Geoffry  came  to  understand,  was 
England.  He  evaded  a  direct  answer  to  the 
question,  and  asked  — "  Why  should  you  not  teach 
at  home?" 

"  Him  and  me's  better  far,"  said  Pat,  as  though 
that  were  sufficient  answer. 

"  You  have  a  quarrel  with  Mr.  Long?  " 

"  None,  beyond  loving  the  same  woman." 

Geoffry  almost  jumped:  but  he  did  not  follow  the 
suggestion  to  its  conclusion  then.  "  Has  he  been 
unkind  to  you?"  he  demanded. 

"  He  hates  me,"  said  Pat,  "  and  that's  unkind, 
for  I  would  not  harm  him  since  he  cared  for  her." 

After  this,  expressed  in  a  manner  that  nearly 
brought  the  tears  to  the  inquisitor's  eyes,  Horn  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Long  had  acceded  in  turn  to  each 
of  Patrick's  demands,  and  given  him  regularly  a 
very  fair  sum  of  money  to  live  upon. 

"  Where  is  your  money?  "  the  examination  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Pat,  hitting  his  pocket 


VERSAILLES  25 

"  They  stole  my  purse  out  there,  a  bother  on  them." 

It  was  not  for  Horn  to  say  if  this  were  true. 
Later,  he  discovered  that  it  was.  He  asked  when 
the  next  instalment  from  Dublin  fell  due,  and  Pat 
told  him,  in  a  month's  time. 

"  And  what,"  said  Geoffry,  "  do  you  intend  to  do 
for  that  month*?" 

It  was  merely  a  test  question,  for  he  already  liked 
Pat  absurdly,  and  nothing  would  have  induced  him 
to  let  him  starve.  The  boy  merely  smiled  at  him. 

"  I'll  go  above  soon,"  he  said,  "  and  consider." 
Stretching  his  legs,  he  looked  at  Geoffry' s  fire.  "  A 
fire  of  cricket-balls,"  he  said.  "  It's  not  so  pretty 
burning  as  the  turf.  You  have  not  been  in  Ireland, 
have  you?  " 

The  diversion  made  Horn  pause  again.  Could  it 
be  delicacy,  that  led  him  to  shelve  the  financial 
question?  He  looked  weak  enough,  and  tired.  He 
could  never  have  been  strong,  and  the  shock  and 
excitement  of  the  day  had  shaken  him.  Yet  for  all 
that  he  was  well  put  together;  he  had  capable  hands, 
and  a  good  head,  though  the  weight  of  it  lay  forward 
over  the  eyes.  "  Art,"  thought  Geoffry,  "  and  en- 
thusiasm. The  head  of  a  man  destined  to  fling  for 
lost  causes,  even  as  he  did  to-day.  He  will  always 
charm,  and  never  attain.  He's  one  of  them,  the 
world's  pensioners.  I  shall  have  to  do  what  I  can." 

Leaning  forward,  he  said,  "  See  here,  Morough : 


26  HERSELF 

I  will  lend  you  enough  for  board  and  lodging  for 
this  month,  and  amusements  in  reason.  But  amuse- 
ments must  stop  short  of  such  noise  as  I  have  often 
heard  at  midnight  under  the  roof,  and  diversions 
must  not  be  varied  by  jumping  into  a  river  in  spate. 
You  had  better  riot  work  too  much  either,  whatever 
your  work  is:  at  least  for  a  day  or  two.  For  this 
night  you'll  stop  on  my  sofa  and  sleep  here.  Reckon 
out  what  money  you  need,  and  I  will  give  it  you  to- 
morrow morning." 

"  I  thought  you  would,"  said  Pat,  raising  his  fine 
eyes  to  GeorTry's.  He  paused  a  minute  as  if  his 
feelings  overcame  him.  "  I  am  already  obliged  to 
you,"  he  said  with  a  sad  dignity,  "  but  it  needs  no 
more  than  this,  Mr.  Horn,  to  make  us  friends." 


Ill 


LATER,  Horn  discovered  that  Patrick's  "  work  "  was 
sculpture:  though,  as  need  hardly  be  mentioned, 
his  business  was  other  than  it,  being  drawing.  It 
is  true,  he  seemed  to  draw  well  by  nature,  but  he 
modeled  more  than  well,  and  knew  it.  He  had 
possessed  a  fiddle,  he  told  Horn,  but  sold  it.  In  fact 
his  sculpture,  his  friend  gathered,  had  gradually 
swallowed  up  his  other  interests,  though  his  percep- 
tions were  always  awake  for  beauty  in  whatever 
form,  and  his  judgment  on  arts  not  his  own,  though 
eccentric,  was  often  astonishingly  correct.  He  re- 
membered also  such  books  as  he  had  read,  though 
they  were  an  odd  selection  —  and  though  it  was 
clear  he  had  not  read  Horn's. 

GeofTry  had  been  very  reticent  about  himself,  for 
with  such  a  character  as  Patrick,  it  was  easy  to  be 
so.  Pat's  discovery  that  the  solitary,  middle-aged 
Englishman  was  a  personage  of  distinction  "  over 
there  "  was  of  quite  recent  date,  and  had  amused  Mr. 
Morough  enormously.  Horn  was  not  quite  sure  if 
he  credited  the  claim.  Pat  liked  his  patron  warmly, 
and  overwhelmed  him  with  his  confidence.  Horn 


28  HERSELF 

was  everything  that  was  admirable  and  respectable 
and  cultivated,  but  "  collectable,"  to  use  the  word 
of  the  Clenches,  he  was  not. 

"You're  not  collectable,  Horn,"  said  Pat,  the 
second  or  third  time  he  borrowed  money,  "  but 
you've  the  great  soul."  And  with  this  doubtful 
blessing  Horn  was  fain  to  be  content. 

He  never  came  very  near  to  gathering  what  the 
"  collectable "  implied,  and  Pat  could  never  ap- 
proach to  a  definition,  though  he  threw  forth 
illustrations  wholesale.  Some  of  the  ragged  com- 
pany for  whom  Horn  had  expressed  such  hasty 
contempt  had  been  so,  as  he  was  informed.  The 
results  of  collectability  he  could  gather  by  working 
the  negative  of  his  own  condition  with  the  positive 
condition  of  Morough  and  his  uncle  Brian.  It  was 
neither  prosperity  nor  respectability,  to  begin  with, 
but  it  approached  occasionally  to  a  very  pure  kind 
of  happiness,  a  more  childlike,  vivid  happiness  than 
wiser  men  could  imagine.  It  was  not  a  shamefast 
condition  either;  Pat's  instinct  was  to  live  like  the 
city  sparrows,  pecking  wherever  crumbs  were  spread. 
As  for  Brian,  the  conspicuous  thing  he  collected  was 
other  people's  money,  and  perchance  from  time  to 
time,  if  half  his  nephew's  stories  were  to  be  believed, 
the  life  of  a  poor,  industrious  woman  such  as  the 
"  actress,"  of  whom  Horn  had  already  vaguely 
heard. 


VERSAILLES  29 

The  night  of  his  return  from  Versailles,  seeing  his 
opportunity,  he  pushed  enquiry  about  this  actress, 
so  suddenly  become  interesting  to  his  mind,  and 
assimilated  a  few  new  facts. 

"  Where  did  they  meet*?  "  enquired  Horn,  in  the 
steady  manner  of  concentration  which  he  always 
employed  to  screw  facts  out  of  Morough. 

"  They  met  in  a  city  tram-car.  It's  a  story  worth 
the  telling."  The  young  gentleman  fell  into  an  easy 
chair,  having  borrowed  a  cigarette  from  Geoffry's 
box.  "There  was  Brian  in  a  street-car  full  of 
strangers,  and  far  from  his  home;  and  she  sitting  at 
the  end,  a  beautiful  woman  under  the  light,  and 
simply  raised  her  voice  to  let  the  conductor  know  he 
had  cheated  her  about  a  cent.  She  did  no  more 
than  say  these  words,  and  it  was  over  with  her  for  all 
time.  '  Who's  that"? '  said  Brian,  with  a  taking 
smile  on  the  conductor,  when  he  came  his  way. 
'How  should  I  know*?'  said  the  conductor,  who 
felt  warm  and  dusty  about  the  cent.  '  I  don't  know 

all  the '  the  conductor  was  rude.  So  Brian 

turned  his  smile  upon  the  world,  and  soon  had  his 
whispered  information.  It  was  clear,  you  see,  by  the 
winks  of  them,  that  everyone  knew  the  lady." 

"She  was  perfectly  respectable,  wasn't  she?" 
Horn  interposed. 

"Not  a  word  against  her,"  said>"at  cheerfully, 
"  and  so  they  told  him  doubtless.  ':  What  do  I  care 


30  HERSELF 

about  all  that?  '  says  Brian.  '  It's  the  voice  for  me. 
Will  you  present  me,  George4? ' 

"My  dear  Pat,"  Horn  protested.  "The  tram 
was  full  of  strangers." 

"  So  he  had  thought,"  said  Pat.  "  He  recognized 
this  fellow  in  their  discoursing  as  the  friend  of  a 
friend.  English  he  was,  which  accounts  for  the 
name.  Well,  this  friend's  friend  shilly-shallied, 
being  shy  as  the  English  are,  but  Brian  pushed 
through  and  got  his  introduction,  in  the  wings  of  a 
second-class  suburban  theater." 

"  You  mentioned,"  Horn  reminded  him,  "  that 
everyone  knew  her  in  the  public  tram-car." 

"  And  they  did  so.  Is  it  the  first-class  actresses 
that  are  the  most  widely  known?  She  was  known 
in  that  town,  or  I  doubt  indeed  if  Brian  Clench 
would  have  singled  her.  By  the  gods,  he  made  her 
better  known  before  he  had  done." 

"  So  he  spotted  her  for  her  voice."  Horn,  even 
while  industriously  sifting  out  the  truth  of  the 
recital,  had  a  sudden  recollection  of  a  girl's  tone  in 
a  glade. 

"  For  her  voice  alone.  It  was  Brian  had  the  taste 
in  voices,"  cried  Pat,  with  energy.  "  He'd  track  one 
at  midnight  through  a  market-place,  and  find  it 
under  the  walls  of  Babel.  Two  singers  he's  picked 
from  the  muck  that  made  their  name  —  three  at  least 
if  the  tales  be  true.  For  there  was  no  smallness  in 


VERSAILLES  31 

him,  and  it  was  all  humanity  he  would  serve  by  his 
discoveries." 

"  Doubtless,"  agreed  Geoffry.  "  In  this  case,  he 
married  her  himself." 

"  Am  I  not  telling  you  it*?  That  voice,  found  in 
this  way,  was  more  to  his  ears  hearing  it  than  the  cry 
of  a  woman's  first  child  at  its  birth  would  be.  And 
it  was  all  the  lady  had  entirely,  for  to  look  at,  she 
was  plain." 

"  She  was  beautiful  under  the  lights,"  said 
Geoffry.  "  Right,  Pat,  go  on :  they  often  are." 

"  It  was  a  fine  singer  lost  in  her,  as  he  soon  knew: 
for  her  singing  and  speaking  voice  were  one ;  and  all 
he  could,  our  poor  Brian  did  to  make  her  sing." 

"  She  had  had  no  training  probably." 

"  Sing  she  could  not,"  wailed  Pat,  "  no  more  than 
an  ass  that  tried  to.  She  had  not  the  training  for  it, 
nor  the  taste,  nor  ideas  to  match  his  own." 

"  She  did  not  wish  to  change  a  lucrative  profession 

she  was  sure  of  for "  Horn  got  so  far  when 

Morough  broke  in. 

"  She  wished  for  all  he  wished,  and  would  have 
died  for  him.  Her  love  was  the  town's  talk,  and  his 
as  well.  He  played  to  her,  and  sang  to  her,  and 
poured  his  soul  and  mind  upon  her,  that  she  should 
find  the  art  of  it.  Long  years  he  waited  by  her,  and 
she  still  practising  patiently.  But  the  poor  small 
woman,  she  could  not.  Her  heart  was  broken  for 


32  HERSELF 

him  surely,"  Pat  rapidly  appended,  seeing  Horn 
about  to  speak. 

"  So  he  deserted  her,"  said  Horn. 

"  He  took  a  little  travel  that  was  necessary,  just 
for  his  affairs.  He'd  have  taken  the  child  they  had, 
loving  her  dearly,  but  that  the  woman  would  not. 
They  had  some  talk  upon  it " 

"Quarreled?" 

"  Well,  wanting  the  voice  that  hid  in  her,  what 
was  there  in  her  to  care  for?  She  was  a  cold  woman 
too,  keeping  the  money  closely  from  him." 

"  Did  she  not  love  him  passionately?  " 

"  She  loved  the  man  he  was,  as  women  must.  But 
no  further  would  she  go,  in  kindness  of  heart,  than 
suited  her  contriving.  Such  women  and  Brian 
Clench  never  could  agree." 

"  So  he  went  to  find  others." 

"  He  pressed  the  child  to  him,  and  went.  It  was 
sorrowing  he  was  later,  doubtless,  to  find  the  woman 
dead." 

"  How  much  later?  "  said  Geoffry. 

"  Six  years  may  be,"  said  Pat  reflectively,  "  or 
nine.  He  came  to  Europe  with  the  girl  not  so  long 
after  that,  the  year  myself  was  fourteen." 

"  How  old  was  the  girl  when  he  first  left  New 
York?  "  said  Geoffry,  who  was  consciously  scheming 
to  find  Miss  Clench's  age.  But  all  arithmetic  was 
at  fault  with  Pat. 


VERSAILLES  33 

"  The  age  a  girleen  is  to  break  your  heart  leaving 
her,"  he  said,  his  fine  eyes  melting  at  the  thought. 
"  When  the  woman  she'll  be  is  in  her,  and  she  still 
light  as  a  fairy." 

"  Put  her  at  eight,"  said  Horn,  on  the  watch  to 
catch  a  contradiction.  "  Eight  and  nine  and  —  say 
six.  Miss  Clench  would  be  twenty-three  if  your 
reckoning  is  approximately  right." 

"It's  the  whole  truth  I'm  telling  you,"  said 
Patrick  —  a  mere  formula  he  used  from  time  to 
time.  "  Three-and- twenty's  the  age  of  a  fine 
woman." 

This  insinuation  having  no  effect  upon  Horn,  who 
seemed  to  be  pondering  in  the  fire-light,  Mr. 
Morough  had  to  start  afresh. 

"  The  daughter  of  Clench  would  be  a  pretty  girl." 

"No,"  said  Geoffry  at  leisure.  "A  little  thing: 
busy,  light,  colorless,  negligible :  a  water-fly." 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  that,"  said  Patrick  to  the 
fire.  Horn  turned  an  eye  of  amusement  on  him. 
"  For  I'd  have  been  in  love  with  her,"  he  proceeded 
to  explain,  "  and  indeed  now  I  have  not  the  time. 
It's  small  time  I  have  to  grow  acquainted  even,  and 
she  heart  and  all  to  me  for  her  father's  sake." 

"  Humph,"  said  Horn.  "  Then  you  have  closed 
with  the  offer  from  that  school  for  Easter,  eh?  " 

"And  if  my  stepfather  stops  my  money  for 
Easter,  how  would  I  do  otherwise?" 


34  HERSELF 

"  Have  you  closed  with  it,  Pat?  " 

"  There's  few  people  I  know  would  save  me," 
answered  the  young  vagabond,  running  his  hands 
into  his  pockets.  "  And  my  Cupid  in  the  Salon,  if  I 
had  the  few  shillings  to  help  him  there." 

"  Demand  your  salary  in  advance,"  said  Geoffry 
rather  grimly. 

"  Could  I  do  that?  "  said  Pat,  not  at  all  ashamed. 
"  Sure  the  English  are  not  so  trustful,  even  to  do  a 
great  good  by  it.  And  the  devil  himself  would  stop 
my  mouth,"  he  corrected  himself  in  a  fine  burst, 
"  when  the  Englishman  that  saved  my  life  is  sitting 
there  quietly  to  reprove  me." 

"  Then  you're  afraid  of  love,"  said  Geoffry,  hark- 
ing back  hastily  to  the  former  point. 

"  Afraid  is  it?  No  more  than  a  fish  of  the  water." 
Pat  stretched  his  arms,  showing  his  elegant  young 
figure  to  perfection.  Yet  his  eyes  still  looked  melan- 
choly, hollow  almost,  in  his  pale  face,  as  they  stared 
wistfully  through  the  high  window.  "  Yet  love  is 
a  wide,  great  thing,"  he  said.  "  It's  all  life  needs  to 
be  given  it,  Horn  —  as  Brian  gave  his  life  —  for 
them  that  have  the  horse  to  ride.  Brian  had  the 
horse,  but  I  have  not.  And  so,  you  see,  I'll  be  a 
little  drawing-master  in  a  country  school.  And  that, 
the  finest  town  in  Europe,  thick  with  the  finest  girls, 
will  go  wanting  me  —  forget  me  soon."  He  sighed 
bitterly.  "  And  Brian's  own  daughter  waiting  just 


VERSAILLES  35 

outside  of  it,"  he  murmured.  "  What  a  world  — 
oh,  what  a  world!  " 

Geoffry  let  him  muse  for  a  time,  and  watched 
him  with  a  student's  eye. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  horse  that  Brian  rode, 
Pat?  "  he  asked  presently.  "  Money?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Pat,  waking  from  his  dream  with 
a  frown  of  vague  annoyance.  He  did  not  care  to  be 
recalled  to  a  momentary  image.  Such,  with  him, 
passed  and  vanished  as  quickly  as  shadows  on  a 
stream. 

"  You  must  mean  courage  then.  It  is  courage 
that  you  lack." 

"  It  is  not,  you  man  of  sentences."  Patrick  was 
frowning  still.  "  Hadn't  I  the  courage  to  fling  in 
that  river,  where  few  would  have  followed  me?  It 
is  the  horse.  I  was  born  without  my  horse  —  it  was 
my  mother  said  it  sadly.  So  I  shall  taste  and 
languish,  linger  and  look  in,  but  I  am  not  to  ride,  and 
have,  and  hold." 

"  This  is  a  melancholy  turn,"  said  Horn,  still 
watching  closely,  for  his  voice  had  the  ring  of  a  rare 
sincerity. 

" Yes,"  he  answered  with  innocence.  "It's  not 
often  you'll  hear  me  speak  like  that.  But  I  know 
well  what  I  say,  though  I  do  my  bit  of  boasting  at 
times,  as  others  do.  Whatever  else  I  say,  you'd  best 
not  forget  I  have  said  this." 


36  HERSELF 

"  Very  well,  I  engage  not  to  forget.  I  dare  say 
you  will  need  reminding,"  said  Horn  with  a  smile. 

"  You're  kind  to  me,"  the  boy  said  with  sudden 
passion.  "  Well,  I  will  go  up  now  attic- wards,  if 
you  have  nothing  more  to  say  of  this." 

"  Then  I,"  said  Geoffry,  unheeding  him,  "  am 
simply  horseless  too." 

"  You're  horseless  and  more,"  said  Morough 
instantly.  "  For  if  you  had  the  horse  you  couldn't 
ride  him." 

"  Couldn't  I  learnt  " 

"  No,"  said  Pat  with  disdain.  "  Whoever  yet  met 
the  man  who  learned  to  ride?  If  he's  a  rider  at  all, 
he  does  it  the  first  time." 

"  Ah.  Then  will  you  not  be  that  rider,  once  you 
have  found  your  horse*?" 

"  Find,  is  if?  "  said  Pat  with  a  stare.  "  How 
will  I  find  it  ?" 

"  Why,  as  the  heroes  did,  lots  of  them.  Sigurd, 
you  know,  went  seeking,  and  saw  a  horse  on  the  hill- 
side, the  greatest  of  the  herd " 

"  German  tales,"  said  Pat,  but  his  languid  eyes 
had  a  flash.  "  Look  here,"  he  said,  leaning  forward, 
"  why  do  you  go  talking  to  me,  and  tempting,  when 
you  find  me  good  as  I  am  to-night*?  You've  been  at 
the  pains  to  make  me  good,  with  your  English  con- 
versation. Would  you  undo  the  thing  by  a  word?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Geoffry.     "  The  truth 


VERSAILLES  S7 

is,  I  fear  you  are  only  good  to-night  because  you  are 
tired." 

"And  why  should  I  be  tired?"  the  boy  said 
sulkily.  "  It's  you  that's  had  the  Thursday  out." 

"And  you  have  had  it  in,  eh?  Shut  into  your- 
self." In  truth,  Horn  had  moments  of  remorse  for 
having  cut  him  off  his  companions;  for  wildly  as  he 
talked,  he  felt  it  did  him  good  to  air  his  thoughts. 
He  was  so  young  after  all,  but  half  Horn's  own  age; 
he  had  nearly  forgotten  how  it  felt  to  be  young.  At 
this  moment  he  saw  pretty  clearly  by  Pat's  looks, 
that  he  had  been  moping  all  day.  He  wondered  a 
little  if  something  lay  concealed  beneath  that  sulky 
air  he  now  carefully  guarded.  It  might  equally  well 
be  bad  health  or  a  bad  conscience  —  one  never  could 
tell. 

"  I'm  all  right,"  growled  Pat. 

"  Well,"  said  Horn,  rising,  "  I  am  going  to  the 
post,  with  a  letter  or  two.  You  have  nothing,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  No."  Motionless  sulks  on  the  part  of  Pat,  his 
legs  stretched  out,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Horn 
was  a  hard  man  to  deceive. 

"You've  a  letter  in  your  pocket,"  he  observed. 
"  Give  it  here." 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Isn't  it  that  post  of  Wayne's  at  Bluffborough, 
that  you  have  accepted?  " 


38  HERSELF 

"  It  can  wait  till  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day. 
Sure,"  said  Pat  with  a  slight  smile  at  his  fingers. 
"  Mr.  Wynne  doesn't  want  a  business  letter  at 
Christmas." 

"  It  can  wait,  in  short,  till  you  have  seen  Miss 
Clench." 

"  Her?  I  doubt  if  I'll  have  the  luck  to  see  her  so 
soon." 

"  Patrick,  you  great  baby,  give  it  to  me.  As  soon 
as  it  is  gone,  it  will  be  off  your  thoughts." 

"  Well,"  said  Pat,  after  struggling  a  moment  with 
his  natural  good  temper  and  love  of  ease,  "There 
you  are."  He  rose  and  shot  an  envelope  across  the 
room.  "  Take  and  post  it,  and  hang  me  completely. 
You  can  read  it,"  he  added  as  he  swung  from  the 
room,  "  if  you  want  to.  The  English  of  it  is  beauti- 
ful." 


IV 


GEOFFRY  HORN  had  a  little  female  note  the  next 
morning  that  made  him  smile. 

"  DEAR  MR.  HORN, 

"  Would  it  be  better  if  you  came  with  Patrick 
on  Sunday  to  Versailles?  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb 
you. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  H.  CLENCH." 

"  Pm  to  be  chaperon  then,"  he  reflected.  "  Bless 
my  heart,  perhaps  this  is  what  I  was  born  for." 
While  he  was  still  smiling  at  the  missive,  and  spec- 
ulating on  the  writing  of  it,  Patrick  came  tumbling 
down,  bearing  another  demure  little  letter,  and  in 
a  state  of  childish  exultation. 

"Clench  it  is,"  said  Patrick.  "See  the  name 
written  clear.  She's  her  father's  daughter  surely. 
Mine  very  sincerely,  H.  Clench.  Why  not  my 
affectionate  cousin?  " 

"  Why  should  it  be  when  she  has  not  seen  you? 


40  HERSELF 

And  the  initial  is  the  custom  in  France.  Am  I  to 
read  it,  Pat?  " 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Pat  surprised,  but  leaning 
over  to  anticipate  him.  "  She's  busy  to-morrow  on 
Christmas  day,  but  I  could  see  her  on  the  Sunday." 

"  Very  good.    What  do  you  propose  to  do*?  " 

"  That's  what  I  came  to  see,"  said  Pat  in  his  most 
infantile  manner,  but  still  smiling  broadly.  "  Will 
I  ring,  and  ask  for  her,  and  have  her  out  with  me  in 
the  street?  " 

"No,"  said  Horn.  "I  think  you  will  not." 
Looking  at  the  handsome  flushed  face  he  could  have 
laughed.  The  sight  of  Pat  Morough  at  thirty  yards 
was  enough  to  flutter  a  French  henroost  into  a  fever. 
"  We  must,"  he  said  gravely,  "  be  careful  of  appear- 
ances. What  do  you  say  to  going  down  together, 
and  walking  in  the  park,  and  asking  Miss  Clench  to 
join  us  by  one  of  the  fountains?  " 

"  That's  the  idea,"  cried  Pat  as  though  relieved. 
"  It's  a  talented  fellow  you  are,  GeofTry.  Then  I 
shall  see  her  coming  a  fair  way  off,  and  get  the  look 
of  her." 

"  You'll  have  to  mind  your  manners,"  said 
Geoffry.  "  The  park  is  a  public  place." 

"  Yourself  will  be  there  to  pull  me  up,"  Pat  in- 
sinuated, putting  on  a  little  more  brogue  to  be 
engaging.  "  I  would  not  frighten  the  little  thing, 
God's  blessing  on  her." 


VERSAILLES  41 

Horn  was  sure  by  this  that  Patrick  was  in  great 
alarm  of  the  interview  with  a  staid  schoolmistress 
older  than  himself,  Clench  or  no.  He  was  clearly  as 
glad  of  his  attendant  as  the  lady  was.  Indeed,  the 
letter  was  enough  to  stiffen  him. 
"  DEAR  COUSIN  PATRICK,"  it  ran, 

"  I  hear  you  are  in  Paris,  and  it  is  a  pity  we  should 
not  be  acquainted,  as  we  are  so  near.  I  am  here  in 
a  girls'  school  at  the  address  I  have  given.  I  have 
holidays  till  the  Thursday  over  Christmas,  more  or 
less,  for  there  are  still  some  girls  to  care  for,  and  we 
take  them  by  turns.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  wanted, 
but  Sunday  morning  I  am  to  be  at  liberty,  and 
Wednesday  I  have  the  full  day.  I  could  see  you 
either  here  or  in  Paris,  as  will  be  most  convenient.  I 
hope  I  have  the  number  correctly." 

And  after  that  the  prim  signature,  and  the  address 
in  the  Avenue  de  St.  Cloud  — "  a  bowshot  from  the 
Palace,"  as  she  quaintly  said. 

"  That's  Clench,"  said  Pat,  his  finger  on  the  word. 
"  Brian  always  said  a  '  bowshot.'  But  I  cannot 
see  him  in  the  rest,"  he  added,  turning  it  wistfully. 

"  Miss  Clench  declared  she  was  not  like  the 
family.  She  told  me  to  warn  you,"  said  Geoffry. 

"  It's  the  actress  she  favors  then."  Pat  sighed, 
for  he  had  his  picture  of  the  uncollectable  actress. 
"  It's  strange  she  should  be  teaching  now,  and  my- 
self to  teach  so  soon."  "  To  think  the  last  of  the 


4S  HERSELF 

Clenches  should  have  come  to  that,"  his  tone  im- 
plied. 

"  Teaching  is  a  very  good  business,"  said  Geoff  ry. 
"  My  family  have  been  in  it  broadly." 

"And  you  teach  yourself  very  well,"  said  Pat, 
with  his  sweet  sly  smile.  "A  man  could  not  live 
with  you,  Horn  —  or  even  two  floors  above  —  and 
not  learn  a  power  of  things." 

"  Well,"  said  Horn,  smiling  too,  "  I  am  now  to 
leave  you  to  your  cousin.  She  mentioned  she  would 
take  you  off  my  hands." 

"  It's  like  a  mother  she'd  be,  then,"  said  Pat  with 
changing  eyes.  He  could  not  get  a  picture  of  this 
Miss  Clench,  and  Horn  seemed  unable  to  project  to 
Pat's  mind  the  picture  he  possessed.  Horn,  accom- 
plished though  he  was  on  paper,  had  not  a  very 
facile  utterance,  judged  at  least  by  his  young  friend's 
standards. 

"  Were  you  frightened  of  her,  Horn?  "  the  boy 
said  suddenly. 

Geoffry  started.  "  Not  exactly  —  well,  yes;  per- 
haps I  was." 

"  You  frightened?  By  the  saints,  then  what  will 
I  be?" 

"You'll  be  careful,"  said  Horn.  "At  least  I 
hope  so.  There  —  go  along.  I  am  busy  to  the  eyes 
this  morning;  and  you  will  get  her  all  wrong  if  you 
speculate." 


VERSAILLES  43 

Patrick,  as  was  inevitable,  did  get  his  cousin 
wrong.  His  relief  at  actually  realizing  her  was 
proportionate.  Within  five  minutes  of  the  moment 
of  meeting,  near  the  bench  on  the  terrace,  below 
the  brown  beech  hedge,  each  found  in  the  other  the 
thing  they  needed,  and  all  formalities  dropped  dead 
between  them.  They  talked  like  brother  and  sister 
—  only  she  ever  guarding  her  little  attitude  of  half- 
comic  restraint  and  plaintive,  quiet  tone. 

Horn  let  them  parade  together,  since  Pat  could 
not  keep  still;  and  sat,  inwardly  amused  alike  at 
himself  and  them,  upon  the  marble  bench.  It  was 
an  early  hour  of  Sunday,  and  the  park  was  almost 
deserted,  so  that  no  great  effort  for  decorum  was 
necessary.  The  day,  however,  promised  well,  and 
a  pale  gleam  of  sun  made  the  cold  stone  terraces 
more  friendly.  Far  away,  at  mid-distance  in  the 
famous  vista  of  wood  and  water,  some  boys  were 
trying  the  ice  of  the  great  canal.  Nothing  near  at 
hand  spied  at  the  merry  meeting,  unless  the  eye 
of  some  gloomy  guardian  in  the  Palace  above,  wait- 
ing his  time  out  for  a  fee ;  or  the  yet  more  stony  eyes 
of  the  classical  statues,  which  seemed  to-day  to  have 
crept  out  of  their  late  cover  furtively,  to  warm  their 
limbs  in  the  winter  sun. 

Withdrawing  his  eyes  from  the  clear  lines  and 
flat  colors  of  the  prospect  he  knew  by  heart,  Horn 
directed  them  to  Patrick,  marveling  anew  at  his 


44  HERSELF 

grace  and  vividness,  for  it  had  not  been  his  lot  to 
meet  many  handsome  men.  The  boy  had  his  hat 
off,  and  was  talking  eagerly  —  about  himself,  as 
Horn  was  sure  by  shrug  and  gesture.  She  was  listen- 
ing, little  Miss  Clench,  standing  still  for  the  moment, 
her  hands  folded  on  the  knob  of  her  neat  umbrella. 
She  was  dressed  in  black  as  before,  and  wore  what 
he  supposed  was  her  Sunday  hat.  At  least  it  sprang 
backwards  in  the  line  of  elegance,  and  carried  a 
Viking-wing  to  either  side.  The  gallant  pose  of  the 
wings  seemed  to  crown  her  well,  light,  slight  and 
determined  as  she  was.  The  instinct  of  her  choice 
was  right,  Mr.  Horn  decided  (since  he  had  full 
leisure  for  it),  emphasizing  that  fearlessness  in  her 
that  he  thought  he  had  discerned.  Now,  as  the  pair 
wandered  back  to  him,  he  saw  her  face  beneath  its 
brim,  colorless  as  he  had  said  to  Pat,  with  that  slight 
ash-tint  across  skin,  brows,  and  hair  alike,  that  seems 
common  to  many  American-born  women.  The  girl's 
hair  had  no  certain  color,  though  prettily  disposed; 
her  eyes  were  an  ordinary  grayish  blue,  well-lashed, 
and  full  like  Patrick's  of  quick-changing  expres- 
sion. She  seemed  a  little  shortsighted,  squeezing 
them  as  she  came  towards  the  sun;  or  else  it  was  the 
contrary,  and  she  was  trying  to  focus  them  on 
Geoff ry's  face. 

"  How  is  the  neuralgia4?  "  he  said,  feeling  he  must 
speak  as  they  approached. 


VERSAILLES  45 

"  Better,"  she  said,  coming  to  a  stop.  "  I  have 
had  it  out." 

"The  dentist  was  rude  to  her,"  said  Patrick, 
advancing  to  her  shoulder  in  brotherly  fashion.  "  I 
wish  I  had  been  there." 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  she  returned,  "  for  going  to 
a  cheap  dentist.  That  is  the  way  I  do,  sparing  where 
I  should  not.  A  man  who  makes  you  so  comfortable 
as  that,  you  should  be  ready  to  pay  well." 

"  A  dentist !  "  Patrick  cried. 

"  He  is  a  great  man,  I  can  tell  you,  to  those  that 
are  in  pain.  He  fills  the  world  for  them.  There 
must  be  dentists  and  doctors,  and  they  are  to  have 
their  money.  But  I  don't  say,"  said  Miss  Clench, 
"  that  he's  at  liberty  to  be  impertinent  for  his  fee." 

"Are  you  poor*?"  said  Pat,  asking  easily  the 
question  Horn  had  longed  to  insinuate. 

"  I  have  enough,"  said  his  cousin,  not  the  least 
offended,  but  gazing  at  him  fixedly. 

"Does  Brian  send  you  money,  then?" 

"Well,  he  has  done  so;  but  I  earn  as  well.  And 
I  hope,"  she  said,  "soon  I  shall  earn  more."  A 
pause,  Patrick  regarding  her  with  a  comic  brow. 

"  How  old  are  you,  I'm  wondering,  after  all?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Clench,  "  my  father  made  a 
mistake.  He  told  Madame  Barriere  I  was  fifteen 
when  he  brought  me  here.  But  I  found  out,  and 
charged  him  afterwards,  and  he  admitted  it." 


46  HERSELF 

"  More?  "  queried  Patrick.  "  What's  the  figure, 
then?" 

"  Less,"  said  Miss  Clench,  with  dignity.  "  My 
age  is  seventeen." 

"  Seventeen?    Oh,  the  darlin' !  " 

"  Now,  Patrick,  be  quiet."  She  retreated  on  the 
gravel.  "  Oh,  you  are  like  him,"  she  murmured. 

"  Like  Brian,  is  it?    So  Kathleen  always  said." 

"  You  call  her  that !  "  said  the  girl. 

"  Since  it  was  the  name  she  told  me." 

"  I  caught  the  trick  from  him  as  well.  Listen, 
Pat:  do  not  be  too  like  him.  What  I  mean  is,  it's 
not  for  everyone  to  be  like  Brian,  and  succeed." 

"Did  he  succeed?" 

"I  believe,"  said  Miss  Clench  guardedly,  "he 
lives  a  most  successful  life." 

"  In  love,  or  war  —  or  finance?  " 

"  Do  not,"  she  said,  her  pale  cheeks  flaming  sud- 
denly. She  winced  as  well,  and  turned  her  steady 
eyes  away. 

"  I  will  not,  cousin  —  what  is  your  name,  by  the 
way?  " 

"  My  mother  called  me  Harriet."  She  resumed 
her  pose  of  demureness. 

"  And  she  did  well,"  said  Pat  politely.  "  I  will 
do  nothing,  Harrie,  but  what  a  loving  cousin  may." 
He  sidled  up  to  her,  absurdly  handsome  and  engag- 
ing. 


VERSAILLES  47 

"  Stand  where  you  are,"  Harriet  said,  and 
stamped  her  foot. 

"  Now  listen.  I'm  respectable  here.  I've  a  posi- 
tion—  yes,  a  position  to  maintain.  I  have  got  to 
maintain  it,  for  the  sake  of  myself  and  all  of  them. 
Be  good  now,  will  you  not?  " 

But  Pat,  his  eyes  dancing,  his  Irish  blood  on  fire, 
found  it  increasingly  hard  to  be  good.  Pat  needed 
his  chaperon  badly. 

"  It's  like  this,"  Harriet  continued,  in  her  tired, 
rather  dry,  little  tone.  "It  is  best  you  should  know 
it  at  once,  and  it's  all  you  need  know  about  me. 
We've  all  got  to  make  our  lives,  and  we  can't  all  be 
geniuses.  Brian  was  a  genius,  granted.  He's  a  great 
man,  and  I'm  little.  I've  even  got  the  idea,  though 
you  will  blame  me,  that  we  can't  afford  a  repetition. 
That's  my  mother's  fault  perhaps,  and  the  fault  of 
the  anxious  life  we  had  together:  I  need  not  speak 
of  that.  My  mother  and  yours,  Patrick,  were  not 
alike,  and  mothers,  as  you'll  allow,  have  got  to  mat- 
ter. Someone  must  make  a  stand,  mine  said  to  me, 
when  I  was  only  eight.  She  tried  to  and  tried  vainly, 
and  so  I  took  it  from  her.  I've  made  a  stand.  I  am 

"  she  looked  at  him  under  her  lids  —  "  I'm 

powerfully  practical.  I  am,  Pat;  my  accounts  come 
right  always.  At  the  least,  I  don't  go  to  bed  before 
they  do." 

There  she  stopped  breathless,  or  expecting  him  to 


48  HERSELF 

crow.  But  he  only  gazed  in  dumb  admiration,  and 
she  turned  in  despair  to  Horn  again. 

"  Make  him  see  it,  will  you?  "  she  cried  plain- 
tively. "It's  needful  for  him  to  know.  You  must 
see  it's  needful,  do  you  not?  —  since  we  are  left, 
and  we  are  but  two."  A  shaft  of  genuine  entreaty 
reached  him,  wistful  and  delicate  through  her  gray- 
blue  eyes. 

Horn  rose  and  put  a  hand  upon  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"He'll  see  it,  Miss  Clench,"  he  said;  <'he  does 
already.  We  are  there  in  Paris,  the  pair  of  us,  to 
serve  you  simply.  And  give  me  the  word  at  any 
time,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  if  you  want  to  get  rid 
of  him." 

"  But  I  want  him  there,"  she  cried.  "  It  never 
could  be  that  I  mean.  I  only  had  to  say  it  because 
—  because  it's  best  to  get  it  over." 

Horn  shook  Pat  slightly,  to  make  him  speak. 
Touched  as  he  was,  he  hoped  that  the  silence  of  the 
youth  might  be  emotion ;  but  he  only  appeared  to  be 
puzzled. 

"  Is  it  over?  "  he  enquired. 

"  It  is,"  said  Harrie.     "  The  tooth  is  drawn." 

"You  have  the  conscience,"  said  Pat  slowly,  as 
though  needing  to  repeat  it.  "  Geoffry,  she's  con- 
scientious." 

"  And  a  very  good  thing  too,"  said  Horn. 

"  Not  good,"  said  Harriet,  "  but  necessary."    She 


VERSAILLES  49 

watched  them  a  minute.  "Oh,"  she  murmured, 
"  and  all  the  time  I'm  longing  to  play  with  the  pair 
of  you." 

"  You  can  play  then,  darlin'  ? "  Pat  cried 
eagerly.  "  When?  " 

"  On  Wednesday,  as  I  told  you,  I  am  free." 

"  Come  and  play  with  me  in  Paris  on  Wednes- 
day." 

"You  mean  it?  Patrick  —  will  you  be  my 
correspondante?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  if  I  can.    She  sounds  feminine." 

"  She  must  be  feminine,"  said  Harrie.  "  That's 
the  point.  Are  you  up  in  the  laws  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion? Do  you  know  what  a  correspondante  is?  " 

"  I  hope  I  will,  when  you  write  to  me." 

"  that's  not  the  sense  of  it!  You're  hopeless.  A 
correspondante  is  a  respectable  person,  recognized 
by  the  school  direction  as  qualified  to  take  me  out." 

"  I'll  do  that,"  said  Patrick.  "  I'll  take  you  off 
if " 

"  Listen !  I'm  serious.  I  never  had  one  all  the 
years  I  was  at  school.  All  the  others  had  always,  and 
I  used  to  pretend  theirs  were  mine.  But  it  is  not  the 
same.  One  of  my  own  —  a  person  of  my  own  " — 
she  wrung  her  gloved  fingers  unconsciously  together 
— "  I  have  never  had  at  all." 

"I'm  not  respectable,"  said  Pat  regretfully. 
"  Horn  may  do." 


50  HERSELF 

"  I  am  not  female,"  said  Mr.  Horn.  "  Why  not 
Madame  Rochette^  She's  my  housekeeper,  Miss 
Clench.  She  writes  a  beautiful  letter,  if  that  is  all 
that  is  needed." 

"It  is  not  needed  really,"  Harrie  reassured  him. 
"  I  only  like  to  believe  I  have  someone  there.  You 
see,  I  am  no  longer  a  pupil  now  at  the  school,  and 
Mme.  Barriere  has  no  right  to  make  enquiries,  trust- 
ing me  as  she  should.  It's  only  by  old  habit  that 
she  does  it." 

"  Were  you  not  always  so  trustworthy*?  "  queried 
Pat  with  a  spark  of  hope. 

"  I  gave  her  some  trouble  at  the  first  of  all." 
Miss  Clench's  eyes  glinted  an  answer  to  his  own. 
"  You  see,  I  was  younger  than  she  thought.  I  am 
now.  There's  always  that  to  be  said  for  me." 

"  She  will  let  you  go  unquestioned  then,"  said 
Horn  more  gravely. 

"Unquestioned,  Mr.  Horn,  she  will  not;  she 
loves  questioning.  But  it's  she  will  be  unanswered 
if  she  does." 

"There's  the  spirit,"  said  Pat,  approving  her. 

"Well,"  said  Harrie.  "Isn't  it  my  day4?  She 
gave  me  the  whole  of  it,  of  her  own  accord.  I've 
worked  for  it,  that  I  know."  She  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Well,  tell  me,  it's  settled  then.  I'll  dream  of 
this  to-night." 

"  Pat  meets  you,"   said  Horn.      "  Or   Madame 


VERSAILLES  51 

Rochette  if  you  prefer.  You  come  to  lunch  with 
me,  if  you  will  honor  me,  Miss  Clench.  After  that 

"  he  made  a  gesture  that  conveyed,  "  You  may 

frisk  your  fill." 

"It's  lovely,"  said  Harriet,  regarding  him  pen- 
sively. "  All  clear  till  midday.  But  " —  she  swung 
about  —  "  you  and  I,  Patrick,  will  make  no  plans." 

"  Not  we,"  said  the  youth,  his  exultation  springing 
at  every  look  he  had  of  her.  "  Harrie,  I  must  beg 
of  you  to  wear  that  hat." 

"  This?  It's  my  new  hat,  I  may  tell  you,  put  on 
the  first  time  this  morning.  But  Mme.  Barriere 
doesn't  like  it.  She  says  the  feathers  must  come 


out." 


"What,  never!  And  cripple  the  bird?  You'll 
not  stand  that,  Harrie,  surely." 

"There  are  some  things  I  must  stand,"  she 
answered.  "  I  expect  that  is  one  of  them.  It  seems, 
the  hat's  a  little  too " 

"  Flighty,"  supplied  Patrick,  without  the  small- 
est effort.  "  Well,  now  I  have  a  picture  of  the 
woman.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  approach  of  that  im- 
pertinence, Horn?  " 

Mr.  Horn  said  modestly  nothing,  knowing  not  of 
such  customs,  nor  of  what  degree  of  impertinence 
was  possible  from  one  woman  to  another  —  but  re- 
gretting the  Viking-hat. 

"  I  am  always,"  Harriet  pursued,  "  trying  to  be 


52  HERSELF 

tame  as  she'd  have  me;  but  I  suppose  that  something 
in  me  is  always  breaking  out.  This  hat,  for  instance, 
which  I  bought  because  it  was  cheap  and  I  liked  it, 
is  not  tame;  it's  wild.  It  spread-eagles  a  little  too 
obviously.  It  shows  something  in  me  that  never 
should  be  there.  I  dare  say  she  is  right,  the  poor 
woman,  and  means  well  to  me."  All  this  in  the  same 
slight,  weary  tone,  and  gazing  upon  them  tranquilly. 

"What  can  she  do  to  you?"  demanded  Pat. 

"  She  can  do  a  great  deal.  It's  my  fate  she  holds 
between  her  hands." 

"  In  paying  you,  you  mean?  " 

"  In  recommending  me.  I  am  not  going  to  stay 
forever  in  this  little  place,  perhaps  you  had  better 
know;  I  hope  to  go  as  a  governess  to  England." 

"To  England?    Where?" 

"Some  great  family  in  the  country,  with  little 
children  to  care  for.  Good  French  and  music  is  all 
they  ask,  and  the  salary  is  double  what  I  have.  Some 
old  friends  of  Brian's,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Escreet,  have 
been  kind  in  recommending  me;  but  of  course  they 
ask  a  letter  from  Madame  too  before  they  quite 
decide." 

"  When's  it  for?  "  said  Pat,  excited. 

"  The  month  of  April,  they're  coming  home  from 
Nice,  and  I'm  to  join  them  then." 

"  Horn,  my  guardian  angel,  do  you  hear  this?  I 
thank  you  for  your  sound  advice.  Now  we'll  be 


VERSAILLES  5$ 

over  there  together,  the  pair  of  us,  and  at  the  same 
season.  You'll  let  me  see  you  in  England,  Harrie 
dear?  " 

"  It  depends  on  my  employers." 

"Her  employers  —  the  way  she  says  it!  And 
what  does  Brian  say  to  your  governessing  like  this 
on  your  own  account?  " 

"Brian  will  know  of  it,"  she  said,  "when  I 
arrive." 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down?  "  said  Geoffry:  for  sud- 
denly her  voice  failed,  and  he  thought  she  must  be 
weary.  So  Harrie  sat  on  the  stone  bench,  her 
umbrella  held  across  her  knees,  and  the  two  tall 
men  stood  to  either  side.  So  sitting,  it  seemed  to 
one  of  them,  she  had  the  ease  of  a  princess;  but  her 
little  face  had  a  gray  shadow  other  than  that  of  the 
beech  hedge,  and  her  forehead  was  frowning.  Pat, 
it  would  seem,  saw  nothing  of  the  change  her  father's 
name  occasioned.  He  spoke  easily  as  ever,  though 
with  ready  emotion.  "  Isn't  Brian  ever  coming  to 
you,  Harrie?"  he  said.  She  met  him  bravely  and 
at  once. 

"  When  he  has  finished  his  affairs,  then  he  will 
come." 

"What  are  his  affairs?" 

"  Why,  what  they  have  always  been.  You  to  ask 
that!"  " 

"  Has  he  a  new  love  upon  him?  "  said  Pat,  with 


54  HERSELF 

the  easy  interest  of  one  who  enquires  as  to  a  new 
situation,  in  the  working  world. 

"  It  seems  he  is  lost  for  her  this  time  entirely," 
said  the  girl  of  seventeen.  "  I  have  not  even  heard 
it  through  him,  the  affair  is  too  serious." 

"  Is  she  a  singer  again  ?  "  said  Pat. 

"  It  seems  not,  if  those  by  whom  I  heard  are  right. 
She's  not  professional  at  all,  a  young  thing  probably. 
Indeed,  they  said  he'd  never  get  her,  but  you  know 
what  that  saying  is  to  Brian.  When  I  heard  of  it,  it 
was  popularly  said  he  had  got  his  work  for  years  to 
come." 

"  And  when  did  you  hear*?  " 

"  In  June,  from  friends  of  my  mother's.  From 
himself,"  she  added,  hastily  supplying  his  question, 
"  nothing  for  over  a  year." 

"  And  where,"  Pat  gaped,  "  does  the  money  come 
from?" 

"  I  tell  you,  I  make  it.  They  keep  me  on  at 
school,  do  you  see,  being  useful  for  the  English.  I 
can  get  on,"  she  said. 

"  Get  on4?  —  but  it's  half  your  life  gone,  wanting 
him."  His  frankness  seemed  to  the  Englishman  un- 
feeling, but  Harrie  only  smiled  a  little  tender  smile. 

"  Half  my  life,"  she  said,  "  dear  Pat.  You  see 
sitting  here  but  the  half  of  me." 

"  But  oh !  "  he  mocked  her,  "  what  the  whole 
must  be." 


VERSAILLES  5o 

Harriet  did  not  answer  beyond  another  slight 
smile,  nor  seem  at  all  impelled  to  flirt,  easy  as  it 
would  have  been  with  such  a  partner.  She  had 
clearly  too  many  pressing  cares,  for  such  entirely 
youthful  pastimes.  Horn  could  not  make  out 
whether  her  sobriety  was  merely  a  matter  of  habit, 
and  of  pretending  to  be  older  than  she  was  owing  to 
Brian's  "  mistake  " :  or  whether  it  was  the  true  es- 
sence of  her  birth  and  upbringing.  It  melted  at 
moments  easily,  as  he  had  seen,  but  it  melted  only 
to  resettle.,  leaving  an  effect  of  childish  dignity;  not 
unlike  that  of  a  young  queen  in  exile,  resigned  to 
the  loss  of  all  she  had  once  owned,  and  still  knew  in 
heart  to  be  hers. 

She  was  at  least  extremely  loyal  to  the  father,  the 
one  possession  she  still  passionately  claimed.  Again 
GeofTry  noted,  shadowed  as  it  were  in  her,  as  it  had 
been  in  Pat  before  her,  the  man's  hopeless  attraction. 

"  Brian  had  been  very  good  to  her,"  she  plain- 
tively repeated  in  his  hearing;  for  when  Harriet 
declared  she  must  go,  and  they  all  turned  their  steps 
to  the  station,  Horn  walked  a  little  ahead,  in  the 
manner  of  a  careful  body-guard,  leaving  his  little 
pair  together.  Yet  owing  to  their  vivacity,  he  could 
not  avoid  overhearing,  and  had  much  to  ponder  on. 

That  time  Brian  came  to  France,  the  last  time  his 
daughter  had  seen  him  in  the  flesh,  they  had  spent 
a  radiant  week  in  Paris,  and  he  had  taken  her  to  the 


56  HERSELF 

Opera  nightly,  and  even  once  to  a  great  singer's 
private  room.  He  had  bought  her  charming  clothes 
as  well,  some  of  which  she  had  still ;  for,  as  she  con- 
fided naively,  her  figure  had  not  changed,  she  having 
been  a  well-grown  girl  at  twelve.  Patrick  sympa- 
thized intensely,  and  being  infinitely  more  curious 
as  to  Brian  than  as  to  the  best  of  Harrie's  little 
affairs,  drew  her  on  the  subject  with  great  adroitness 
and  lightness  of  touch. 

Well,  after  that,  Harrie  admitted,  the  amusement 
stopped;  presumably  the  money,  whencesoever  de- 
rived, ran  out.  The  next  thing  was  the  jolting  tram- 
ride  to  Versailles,  and  the  memorable  interview  with 
Madame  Barriere.  Harriet  had  tried  during  the  in- 
terview to  keep  her  father  "  good,"  but  she  admitted, 
upon  the  apt  suggestion  of  Pat,  that  Madame  was 
not  a  well-favored  woman;  also  that,  as  that  lady 
always  expected  to  keep  the  lead  in  conversation, 
Brian,  of  necessity,  talked  her  down.  Madame  was 
left  gaping,  with  nothing  to  say,  since  most  of  her 
projected  utterances  had  been  supplied,  dramatically, 
by  the  opposing  party;  but  she  was  not,  as  it  even- 
tually appeared,  too  favorably  inclined  to  little 
Harriet,  the  girl  thus  left  on  her  hands. 

The  character  given  her  by  her  father  Harrie  had 
to  live  down,  since  it  could  not  possibly  be  lived  up 
to.  Her  pathetic  situation,  also  beautifully  sketched 
for  Madame's  benefit,  was  believed  by  that  lady  to 


VERSAILLES  57 

be  "  blague,"  as  various  other  items  in  the  conversa- 
tion proved  later  to  be.  Madame  did  not  in  her 
heart  believe  that  Harrie's  mother  was  either  re- 
spectable, or  dead;  and  the  indescribable  limelight 
thrown  by  such  histories,  for  a  French  mind,  was 
cast  upon  the  little  trimly  built,  decorous  figure, 
daintily  robed  in  dark  colors.  That  the  school- 
mistress kept  her  suspicions  to  herself  may  be  ad- 
vanced in  her  favor:  and  that  they  ever  leaked  out 
at  all,  was  more  due  to  the  girl's  preternatural 
instinct,  than  to  Madame' s  indiscretion,  as  is  later  to 
be  seen. 

Beyond  the  main  facts  of  all  this,  which  Miss 
Clench  sketched  to  her  cousin  in  their  easy  chatter, 
she  spoke  not  at  all  of  her  personal  feelings,  nor  of 
the  innumerable  infinitesimal  jars  and  miseries  from 
which  she  must  have  suffered;  nor  did  she  hint  at 
the  drudgery  and  solitude  which  must  have  been  her 
lot.  It  was  Horn,  quick  and  sympathetic  in  his 
imaginative  insight,  who  supplied  the  intervals  of 
the  events  which  Morough  found  merely  amusing; 
for  he  felt  that  something  besides  the  facts  she  gave 
was  needed  to  account  for  the  shadow  on  her  face, 
and  the  line  he  had  seen  in  full  sunlight  on  her 
brow. 

Harriet  had  done  some  "  collecting,"  she  assured 
her  cousin,  and  had  not  been  entirely  unblessed  by 
fortune  in  that  matter,  in  her  little  backwater  at 


58  HERSELF 

Versailles.  Madeleine,  the  quasi-friend  who  had 
lately  turned  her  back  on  her,  was  collectable, 
though  the  daughter  of  an  old  family,  and  "  almost 
too  refined  to  live."  Another  of  the  mistresses,  a 
German-Swiss,  heavy-footed  and  sentimental  and 
terribly  conscientious,  had  blossomed  into  collect- 
ability  in  one  evening,  when  Harrie  discovered  her 
passion  and  genius  for  music. 

,  Pat'  wanted  to  know  about  the  appearance  of  this 
pair  of  persons;  and  being  informed  that  Madeleine 
de  Bois-Severac  was  pretty,  and  Bertha  Lindt  was 
not,  pursued  his  enquiries  after  Madeleine. 

Geoffry  had  leisure  to  note  and  wonder  at  Har- 
riet's unchildish  suppleness  and  patience  with  him, 
as  though  centuries  of  experience  of  such  natures 
had  been  hers.  The  tacking  maneuvers  she  accom- 
plished in  talk  to  follow  him  were  not  mere  laisser- 
aller  —  a  chance  breeze  shifting  the  sails  —  but  the 
guiding  hand  of  experience  and  discretion.  She  was 
watching  always,  easy  as  she  seemed;  and  only  just 
at  the  moment  of  farewell,  she  became  for  five 
minutes  young  again. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  as  she  took 
Horn's  hand.  "  It's  awful  to  lie,  isn't  it?  But  if  I 
have  to  about  Wednesday,  I  shan't  stop  short  of 
some  good  ones.  You  are  an  old  friend  of  my 
father's  —  is  that  quite  impossible?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Geoffry,  basking  in  the  soft 


VERSAILLES  59 

beam  of  her  eyes  upon  him.  "  An  acquaintance  of 
mine  saw  Mr.  Clench  in  Dublin  five  years  back,  and 
spoke  to  him  twice." 

"  Did  he,  indeed?  But  that  was  lovely  of  your 
acquaintance.  You  are  a  Mr.  Roche tte  —  wasn't 
it?  Or  have  I  mistaken  your  name?  " 

"  Rochette,"  Horn  agreed.  "  And  my  wife  writes 
admirable  letters  —  at  an  instant's  notice  when 
required." 

"  I  will  not  forget  it.  And  may  Heaven  pardon 
the  lies  I'll  tell,  if  I  tell  them.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Horn.  It  was  '  chic '  of  you  to  come.  '  Chic  '  is 
the  best  thing  we  can  say  of  anybody  at  Versailles, 
and  so  you  will  understand." 


LITTLE  Miss  Clench  went  home  from  the  station 
rather  thoughtful.  The  excitement  of  hearing  a 
tongue  from  the  past  and  the  heart  of  her  own  land, 
in  dispersing,  left  her  plunged  in  a  world-weariness 
which  was  equally  the  inheritance  of  her  race.  She 
would  have  said  in  her  quaint  tongue  that  she  was 
grieved  for  Patrick's  going  from  her;  and  left  out 
of  account  such  details  as  the  strain  for  months  past 
to  save  out  of  a  small  allowance,  the  aching  desire 
for  her  father's  news:  or  more  immediate,  the  fact 
that  she  had  not  slept  well,  owing  to  pain,  for  a 
week. 

She  was  longing  for  a  little  friendly  talk  with  an 
equal  to  relieve  the  feeling  that  weighed  on  her,  and 
when  she  saw  ahead  of  her  in  the  market-place  the 
plump  figure  of  the  daughter  of  the  house,  Mile. 
Gene  vie  ve  Barriere,  she  hurried  to  overtake  her. 
This,  like  many  of  Harrie's  impulses,  was  rash;  for 
Mile.  Barriere  was  returning  from  Mass,  where 
Miss  Clench  herself  had  been  supposed  to  be;  and 


VERSAILLES  61 

she  laid  herself  open  at  once  to  a  well-laid  train  of 
suspicion  and  enquiry. 

She  knew  Genevieve  after  a  fashion  very  well,  in 
the  sense  of  having  been  much  in  her  company.  She 
had  spent  much  time  and  vivacity  on  instilling 
English  into  her  somewhat  impervious  intellect,  and 
her  marked  success  in  making  her  talk  that  tongue 
had  led  to  her  first  paid  engagement  in  the  Barriere 
household.  The  young  lady  did  not  at  least  refuse 
to  look  at  her,  as  she  had  done  by  all  Englishwomen 
hitherto  presented  to  her  sight.  A  trifle  of  commer- 
cial instinct  on  Mile.  Barriere' s  side  may  also  have 
entered  into  the  affair:  for  Miss  Clench  absorbed 
good  French  so  fast,  that  it  became  a  matter  of 
national  honor  to  keep  the  traffic  equal,  and  gain  at 
least  as  much  as  she  gave. 

Mile.  Barriere  was  not  a  bad  girl,  but  she  led  a 
somewhat  ungrateful  life,  which  had  soured  her 
temper.  She  was  tied  by  duty  and  lack  of  initiative 
combined  to  her  mother's  pension ;  refusing  to  teach, 
she  remained  half  housekeeper,  half  handmaid,  when 
she  privately  considered  she  was  fit  for  better  things. 
The  sight  of  Miss  Clench,  with  her  little  air  of  pos- 
sessing her  own  soul,  and  her  power  of  humorous 
mockery  of  herself  as  well  as  of  other  people,  tended 
always  to  augment  this  discontent.  There  was 
between  Harriet  and  Genevieve  in  these  latter  days 
a  sort  of  armed  neutrality,  which  one  was  top 


62  HERSELF 

prudent  and  the  other  too  languid  to  break.  The 
French  girl  was,  or  thought  she  was,  exactly  of 
Harrie's  age,  and  there  were  intervals  in  her  habit- 
ual assumption  of  superiority  when  she  openly 
expressed  envy  both  of  her  freedom  and  her  loneli- 
ness. 

Miss  Clench's  first  remark  touched  the  sore  place 
unconsciously. 

"Where  is  Lucile  ?"  she  said,  alluding  to  the 
bonne  who  was  always  attached  to  Mile.  Barriere 
when  she  went  to  Mass  alone. 

"  Lucile  is  buying  beetroot,"  said  Genevieve.  "  I 
sent  her  off.  I  have  no  need  of  her,  and  she  is  too 
afraid  of  me  to  tell.  Besides,  I  gave  her  a  ring 
yesterday  for  the  fete." 

"  Did  you?  "  said  Harrie,  with  a  pang  of  remorse. 
"  I  had  nothing  for  her  but  my  old  hat." 

Mile.  Barriere  threw  a  supercilious  glance  at  her 
companion's  head,  and  her  brow  knit  anew.  Miss 
Clench,  for  a  so-called  Englishwoman,  was  too  well- 
dressed:  though  how  she  managed  it  on  next  to 
nothing,  Genevieve  spent  time  and  curiosity  in  vain 
to  discover. 

"  And  where  may  you  have  been?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  did  not  see  you  in  the  Church." 

"  No,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  took  a  walk  in  the  Park 
instead.  It  was  such  a  fine  morning,  and  friends  of 


mine  came  over." 


VERSAILLES  63 

"Friends*?"  said  Mile.  Barriere  astonished. 
What  did  Miss  Clench  mean  by  suddenly  having 
friends? 

"Yes,"  said  Harrie,  warm  with  the  memory. 
"  My  cousin  and  another." 

In  French,  there  was  nothing  equivocal  in  the 
genders,  and  the  girl's  eyes  opened  wider.  But  she 
did  not  express  surprise,  for  in  her  duty-conversa- 
tions with  the  English  girl,  she  had  always  made  out 
a  vast  contempt  for  the  prejudices  under  which  her 
mother's  old-fashioned  mind  was  wont  to  labor. 
This  revolt  she  declared,  as  to-day  in  casting  off  the 
bonne,  on  all  occasions  when  her  mother  was  not  by. 
Harriet,  though  at  times  annoyed  at  her  weakness, 
believed  these  professions  to  be  sincere,  and  saw  no 
harm  in  encouraging  them  a  little,  since  it  was  on 
this  score  that  the  girl  claimed  her  sympathy. 

Mile.  Barriere  noticed  after  some  minutes  that 
her  companion  was  biting  her  lip,  and  was  sure  she 
was  regretting  her  confidence.  The  confidence  itself 
was  rolling  round  her  brain,  gathering  as  it  rolled  a 
wealth  of  furtive  suggestion.  It  was  an  unusual 
lump  of  new  material  for  consideration,  criticism, 
and  eventually  for  close  discussion  with  her  inti- 
mates. Such  matter  of  talk  did  not  occur  every  day 
at  Versailles,  where  subjects  of  conversation  were 
threadbare  with  constant  use.  This  would  wear, 
Genevieve  felt,  for  some  time.  Formulated,  it  had 


64  HERSELF 

four  parts,  each  capable  of  extension.  The  self- 
contained  Miss  had  a  cousin,  the  cousin  had  a  friend, 
both  masculine  gender,  and  she  avoided  Mass  to 
meet  them,  and  wore  a  new  hat. 

'  You  have  extremely  mauvaise  mine  to-day, 
cherie,"  said  Mile.  Genevieve,  suddenly  affectionate. 
"  You  have  surely  been  too  long  in  the  sun." 

"I'm  wanting  sleep,"  said  Harrie  simply. 
"You'll  observe  I'm  staggering  for  want  of  it. 
Christmas  night  I  had  none,  what  with  midnight 
service  and  the  toothache;  and  last  night  you  might 
have  said  I  missed  my  tooth.  I  suppose  the  pain 
had  occupied  my  thoughts  more  than  I  knew." 

She  smiled,  but  Genevieve  did  not  find  anything 
amusing.  She  was  weightily  deciding  that  Miss 
Clench  had  lost  her  looks,  what  looks  she  ever  had, 
and  if  she  could  not  lose  her  figure  and  pretty  gait, 
there  was  nothing  about  her  sensationally  attractive. 
A  girl  like  that  did  not  need  a  bonne  in  the  street, 
consequently  any  comparison  between  them  was 
barely  possible. 

Having  arrived  by  measured  steps  at  this  point, 
she  felt  kindly  enough  to  offer  some  titbit  of  interest 
in  return.  Being  in  her  mother's  confidence,  she 
had  a  store  of  such  little  secrets,  which  she  used  with 
instinctive  economy. 

"  Fraiilein  Lindt  is  leaving  at  the  New  Year," 
she  said,  drawing  closer  to  her  companion. 


VERSAILLES  65 

"  Never !  "  said  Harrie,  stopping,  her  brow  knit- 
ting tight. 

"  Yes,  it  is  at  last  decided.  And  she  will  know 
this  evening." 

"But  —  the  New  Year?  She  should  have  more 
notice.  It  is  too  hard  on  her." 

"  Ma  chere,  she  is  impossible.  Dirty  —  loud  — 
her  voice,  you  know,  and  the  noise  she  makes  on  the 
piano:  she  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  piano.  The 
pupils  detest  her,  and  Madeleine  has  twice  com- 
plained. She  told  Maman  before  she  left  she  would 
speak  to  her  own  mother  in  the  holidays." 

"  Well,"  said  Harrie,  "  I  shall  speak  to  Made- 
leine. The  little  cat,  when  poor  Bertha  mended  her 
lace  for  her,  and  helped  her  in  her  practicing  for 
weeks  for  nothing.  Genevieve  —  think !  What 
can  Bertha  do  in  a  week?  She  has  nowhere  to  go. 
It  is  cruelty." 

Mile.  Barriere  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 

"  Such  things,"  pursued  Harriet  warmly,  "  can 
only  be  done  in  a  private  place.  Down  there  at  the 
big  school,  it  would  be  impossible." 

"  If  you  say  so  to  la  chere  Maman,"  said  Gene- 
vieve, "  you  will  be  sent  packing  as  well."  Indeed, 
there  was  frigid  jealousy  in  the  Barriere  institution 
of  the  growing  reputation  of  the  great  public  school. 
The  small  seminary  could  only  disguise  its  isolation 
in  a  backwater  of  the  great  river  of  state  education, 


66  HERSELF 

bearing  its  offer  of  cheap  instruction  to  all,  by  an 
assumption  of  superiority,  and  an  adroit  appeal  to 
those  parents  for  whom  retirement  connotes  distinc- 
tion, and  high  prices  a  high  polish. 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  say  so  in  public  and  follow 
her,"  cried  Harrie.  "  It  is  heartless." 

"  You  have  a  heart  for  all,"  murmured  Mile. 
Barriere. 

She  could  not  understand  how,  with  Madeleine 
de  Bois-Severac's  friendship  and  countenance  at 
command,  this  amazing  girl  could  choose  so 
promptly  the  other  side.  Madeleine,  a  general 
favorite  and  the  pride  of  the  school,  had  confided  to 
Genevieve  that  she  would  have  carried  off  "  la  petite 
anglaise  "  to  her  mother's  chateau  for  the  holidays 
—  as  she  had  indeed  half-promised  to  do,  had  it  not 
been  for  her  sudden  and  tasteless  friendship  for  the 
vulgar  little  German.  Genevieve  could  not  believe 
Harrie  had  so  little  penetration  as  not  to  discover 
this,  until  she  heard  her  openly  lament  Madeleine's 
infidelity.  Genevieve  was  not  without  hopes  of  get- 
ting the  next  invitation  herself,  could  she  manage  a 
promising  affair  with  sufficient  tact  and  foresight. 
She  was  thinking  hard  —  as  hard  as  her  brain-power 
would  admit,  while  she  talked  to  Harrie  on  the 
homeward  way.  Her  thoughts  on  the  whole  were 
profitable  also,  for  Mile.  Barriere  seldom  wasted  her 
time;  but  she  had  leisure  to  note  that  a  young  officer 


VERSAILLES  67 

on  the  opposite  pavement,  one  of  the  notably  well- 
behaved  military  contingent  in  her  town,  was  re- 
garding them  thoughtfully  while  he  twisted  his 
moustache;  and  she  even  had  the  chance  to  languish 
a  little  for  his  benefit,  since  security,  in  the  person  of 
the  bonne  Lucile,  with  arms  as  red  as  her  beetroot, 
was  now  puffing  steadily  in  her  wake. 

At  ten  that  night  Harriet  was  in  Fraiilein  Lindt' s 
tiny  room,  helping  the  poor  creature  to  stifle  her 
sobs.  Stifling  was  necessary;  for  firstly,  Fraiilein 
Lindt  sobbed  aloud,  and  secondly,  though  the 
younger  children  in  the  neighboring  room  were 
sleeping  soundly,  the  great  "  silence-bell  "  had  rung 
more  than  an  hour  since,  and  the  house  had  a  mouse- 
like —  or  rather  a  cat-like  stillness.  The  unseen  eye 
of  sleepless  Surveillance  watched  over  that  lady-like 
establishment,  and  under  its  roof  one  never  felt 
alone. 

"  I  asked  her  to  mention  a  point  where  I  had 
failed  in  my  duty,"  Fraiilein  Lindt  sobbed  to  Harrie 
in  her  heavy  French,  "  and  she  could  find  nothing  to 
say.  There  is  nothing  to  say,  for  I  have  done  all 
and  more  than  she  bade  me.  The  hours  she  gave  me 
for  my  art  I  have  rigorously  observed  and  never 
exceeded  —  not  though  the  hour  found  me  in  the 
middle  of  a  scale.  If  I  have  forgotten  myself  occa- 
sionally when  interrupted,  can  she  rightly  com- 


68  HERSELF 

plain*?  The  time  was  mine  by  arrangement;  I 
bought  it  by  so  many  hours  of  grinding  toil  —  it  was 
my  only  recreation." 

"  Time  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  buy," 
said  Harriet  sententiously.  "  Sometimes  I  think 
time  never  is  your  own:  so  many  people  are  tearing 
at  it,  as  soon  as  you  come  to  think." 

"  Not  to  me,"  sobbed  Fraiilein  Lindt.  "  Those 
hours  to  me  were  silence,  Nature's  vast  silence  and 
her  harmony." 

Harrie's  mouth  twitched.  Bertha's  hours  of  prac- 
tice had  been  so  far  from  exhibiting  Nature's  silence 
for  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  house.  Then,  re- 
membering the  woman's  intermittent  inspiration 
and  real  gift,  she  grew  serious  again. 

"  Try  for  an  English  situation,  Bertha,"  she  mur- 
mured earnestly.  "  You  will  be  happier  there. 
See,  come  with  me  to  Paris  on  Wednesday,  and  we 
will  go  to  a  registry  office  together.  So  good  at 
music,  and  three  languages,  there  must  be  something 
in  the  market  that  will  suit  you." 

"No,"  said  Fraiilein  Lindt;  "I  am  not  required. 
I  have  always  felt  it,  and  now  I  know."  She  lifted 
her  ugly,  tear-worn  eyes.  "You,  dearest  Miss, 
elegant  little  creatures  like  you  and  Madeleine,  are 
welcome  always,  and  to  all  the  world.  But  I  have 
nothing  to  attract." 

"  Bertha,  you  have  genius.    Is  genius  nothing?  " 


VERSAILLES  69 

"It  is  not  for  sale,"  said  Fraiilein  Lindt  with 
finality.  "  I  do  not  even  wish  to  offer  it.  I  have  no 
courage  left  to  strive,  and  I  am  better  in  my  grave." 

"  You  are  better  in  your  bed,"  said  Harriet 
sensibly.  Bertha's  weighty  gloom  had  power  to 
overwhelm  her  own  slight  miseries,  to  numb  her 
senses  by  pounding,  as  it  were;  but  it  spurred  her 
mind  anew  to  passionate  activity.  She  had  at 
moments  a  child's  fear  of  the  violent,  ill-regulated 
nature,  enclosed  in  iron  bonds  of  her  self-imposed 
duty,  but  never  completely  incapable  of  breaking 
through  them.  She  had  tried  Bertha  all  ways  in  her 
moods,  but  had  found  no  surer  way  of  managing 
her  than  her  favorite  pose  of  dry,  light-handed 
reasons,  though  now  while  she  reasoned,  helping  her 
into  bed,  her  voice  was  trembling  with  pity  and 
indignation. 

"  I  have  begged  to  leave  finally  on  Friday," 
gasped  Fraiilein  Lindt,  crawling  into  her  narrow 
bed,  "  before  the  girls  come  home.  I  gather  Madame 
has  already  replaced  me,  for  she  made  no  difficulty. 
I  meant  to  ask  for  my  extra  half-term's  salary,  but 
her  cruelty  so  oppressed  me  I  could  not.  I  could  not 
formulate  an  application.  I  shall  —  I  shall  not 
willingly  look  upon  her  face  again." 

"  Nobody  willingly  looks  upon  Madame's  face," 
said  Harrie.  "  She'll  give  you  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation, I  hope*?  " 


70  HERSELF 

"  She  has  done  that,  though  I  have  not  dared  to 
read  it."  Bertha  reached  for  a  neat  envelope,  and 
extended  it  in  her  shaking  fingers. 

"It  is  all  right,"  Miss  Clench  reassured  her,  hav- 
ing read  it  through  by  the  light  of  the  tiny  lamp. 
"  You  are  sure  to  get  something  soon.  What  about 
going  back  home  in  the  interval*?  " 

"  I  never  could,"  moaned  Fraiilein  Lindt,  "  un- 
less to  die.  There  are  six  others,  and  they  do  not 
need  me."  Indeed,  Harriet  knew  that  the  great 
awkward  bird,  uncomfortably  gifted,  had  been 
kicked  out  of  the  parental  nest,  and  left  to  live  as  it 
could.  After  reflecting  a  little,  she  asked  Bertha 
what  money  she  had. 

"  Sixty  francs,"  said  the  poor  thing,  "  and  my 
opera-ticket  for  Wednesday  night.  Ah,  with  how 
glad  a  heart  I  had  meant  to  go." 

"Do  you  wish  to  get  rid  of  the  ticket*?"  said 
Harrie,  more  strenuously  practical  than  ever. 

"  No  —  oh,  no.  I  shall  keep  it  and  attend. 
It  means  three  hours  of  glory  and  forgetfulness 
for  me." 

"Collectable,"  thought  Miss  Clench.  "Only 
they  can  be  happy  in  the  face  of  such  uncertainty. — 
Well,  Bertha,  think  now  of  that  opera  all  you  can, 
and  you  will  sleep.  What  is  it  going  to  be*?  " 

"  Rheingold,"  said  Fraiilein  Lindt,  her  swollen 
eyes  tight  shut,  and  her  strong  blunt  fingers  clasped 


VERSAILLES  71 

dramatically.  The  German  syllables  rolled  from 
her  mouth  as  though  they  actually  contained  riches. 

"  But  that  is  the  fine  music  for  sleeping  upon," 
said  Harrie,  lowering  and  mellowing  her  tone.  She 
could  do  this  at  will,  as  some  birds  do  in  a  single 
phrase,  dropping  its  tired  little  timbre  completely, 
and  speaking  full  and  quietly.  "  Remember  how  it 
opens  with  the  river  flowing,  Bertha,  curling  and 
marching  along,  like  some  that  you  have  at  home. 
Those  are  the  sounds  to  take  you  into  dreams." 

"  Speak  —  go  on  speaking,"  said  Fraiilein  Lindt 
intensely,  with  the  face  of  a  sleeping  prophetess. 
"  I  value  friendship  more  than  operas ;  and  there  is  a 
treasure  hidden  in  your  voice,  beloved  Miss,  greater 
than  the  gold  beneath  the  Rhine." 

Harriet,  in  the  dim  light,  had  also  knit  her  fingers 
together;  sorrow  and  sympathy,  and  the  memory  of 
the  music  she  adored,  had  almost  broken  her.  But 
she  murmured  on  till  midnight,  barely  thinking, 
speaking  nothings  light  as  air,  to  which  her  Celtic 
instinct  lent  the  fall  of  poetry.  When  her  friend 
was  at  last  asleep,  she  herself  was  but  half  conscious, 
and  she  could  only  just  stagger  to  bed. 

She  slept  intermittently,  and  dreamed  of  Bertha 
and  Patrick,  as  though  some  impulse  of  her  subcon- 
sciousness  had  already  combined  them.  She  woke 
before  break  of  day,  and  by  the  light  of  her  little 
"  pigeon-lamp,"  still  with  her  friends  in  mind,  she 


72  HERSELF 

reckoned  out  her  own  resources.  Sixty  francs  would 
barely  keep  the  improvident  Bertha  for  a  week;  yet 
she  herself  had  little  more,  though  her  situation  was 
safe  and  her  salary  owing  her.  Nevertheless  she  had 
in  the  savings  bank  quite  a  goodly  store  —  no  less 
than  the  sum  of  all  Brian's  presents  to  her  since  she 
began  to  earn.  Harrie  looked  through  her  deposit- 
book  and  added  it  up  with  an  earnest  brow.  Anent 
this  money  she  had  a  fixed  superstition:  it  was  not 
hers  nor  Brian's,  but  Kathleen's,  and  so,  of  course,  it 
was  now  the  property  of  Kathleen's  son.  The  ques- 
tion now  perplexing  her  was,  could  she  make  him 
take  it,  or  even  venture  on  the  offer.  It  bore  no  pro- 
portion probably  to  the  debt  her  father  really  owed : 
a  paltry  little  twenty  pounds,  languishing  unused. 
Kathleen  herself  had  never  claimed  or  admitted  the 
debt,  and  her  son  had  probably  forgotten  it.  Well, 
could  Harriet  in  that  case  "  lend "  a  little  of  it, 
temporarily,  to  Bertha  Lindt?  It  was  a  mighty 
problem,  both  moral  and  financial,  to  a  child  of 
seventeen. 

There  was  poetry  in  the  bank-book,  too.  Each  of 
those  entries  timed  one  of  her  father's  letters,  and 
marked  a  season  of  joy.  Brian  had  destined  each 
sum  in  his  droll  fashion,  adding  not  unfrequently  a 
comic  account  of  how  the  money  had  been  won  or 
earned,  in  order  to  demonstrate  to  his  young  critic 
that  he  had  come  by  it  honestly.  Here  was  "  candy 


VERSAILLES  73 

for  Christmas  in  case  I  forget,"  a  letter  character- 
istically dated  early  in  August.  Here  were  "  fifty 
francs  to  buy  her  a  long  new  feather  in  almond- 
green,  for  this  rainy  season  will  surely  have  spoiled 
the  old."  Here  was  another  small  sum  for  a  strenu- 
ous purpose,  vigorously  underlined.  Cora  Warden, 
the  Californian  prima  donna,  was  singing  for  a  week 
in  Paris,  and  Harrie  was  to  get  a  seat  at  whatever 
price,  to  hear  her  in  Carmen.  Harrie  had  heard 
Cora  Warden  from  the  gallery,  after  two  hours' 
patient  waiting  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  had 
sent  Brian  the  opinion  demanded;  but  she  had  stored 
his  dollars  none  the  less,  with  the  toilsome  devotion 
of  an  ant,  and  had  watched  the  little  sum  grow  with 
the  amused  satisfaction  of  one  who  certainly  had  not 
saving  in  the  blood.  That  the  proceeding  contained 
an  implied  reproach  to  her  father  the  girl  never 
imagined,  for  she  was  far  from  condemning  his  mode 
of  life.  His  proceedings  were  himself  peculiar  to 
the  make  of  man  he  impersonated,  a  make  from  all 
other  points  of  view  delightful,  and  only  a  very 
little  harassing  from  this.  His  gifts  to  her  had  ever 
been  charmingly  offered  and  imagined,  if  oddly 
timed.  So  long  as  Brian  loved  her,  Harrie's  instinct 
was  to  labor  for  him  as  minutely  and  constantly  as 
a  hundred  ants  could  do;  and  when  he  forgot  and 
neglected  her,  she  bowed  her  head,  shrugged  her 
little  philosophic  shoulders,  and  laid  up  her  slight 


74  HERSELF 

store  against  the  evil  day  when  any  might  dare  to 
attack  him,  and  he  might  have  to  fall  back  upon 
even  a  daughter's  support. 

"  I  must  talk  to  Patrick  to-morrow,"  she  resolved, 
shutting  the  bank-book  with  a  sigh,  and  laying  it  in 
its  hidden  place.  "  The  boy  has  a  clever  face,  and 
who  knows  but  he  may  be  earning  after  all !  " 

After  that  she  wrote  two  notes,  still  with  the  bent 
brow  of  strenuous  decision :  one  to  Madeleine 
de  Bois-Severac,  setting  keenly  forth  poor  Bertha's 
situation,  and  giving  it  as  her  opinion  that  the  least 
Madeleine  could  do,  having  deprived  her  of  a  good 
place,  was  to  ask  her  mother  to  recommend  her  to  all 
her  connections,  and  if  possible  find  her  a  better  one 
soon. 

The  second  note  was  to  Pat  himself,  requesting 
him  to  excuse  her  to  Mr.  Horn,  since  she  had  busi- 
ness on  Wednesday  morning,  and  was  to  lunch  with 
a  friend.  She  would  join  him  at  two,  she  said,  any- 
where he  chose  to  select,  and  he  would  be  a  "  good 
boy  not  to  complain  of  her." 

Patrick  did  complain,  aloud  and  volubly;  and  re- 
venged himself  by  making  a  hurried  round  of  the 
theaters,  and  buying  two  very  good  and  expensive 
seats  at  the  Opera  Comique,  which  were  all  that 
were  left,  since  in  Christmas  week  one  cannot  choose. 
He  did  not  tell  GeofTry  Horn  of  this  extravagance, 


VERSAILLES  75 

and  Horn  did  not  enquire,  for  he  felt  he  had  inter- 
fered sufficiently  in  what  was  really  a  family  affair. 
Besides,  when  Pat  had  paid  his  morning  visit  on 
Tuesday,  and  had  left  his  message,  Geoffry  felt 
himself  a  little  depressed,  for  his  work  was  not  ad- 
vancing, and  he  was  in  the  state  of  mind  to  gnaw 
the  fingers  and  take  small  things  hardly. 

He  went  in  a  shamefaced  manner  to  Madame 
R6chette  and  countermanded  the  exquisite  lunch  he 
had  ordered,  explaining  that  "  cette  dame "  had 
been  detained  by  her  affairs,  and  was  unable  in  con- 
sequence to  honor  him.  Madame  Rochette,  who 
adored  and  pitied  Geoffry  in  about  equal  propor- 
tions, watched  his  face  while  he  spoke,  and  said  a 
private  "  Humph !  "  at  the  end.  The  lunch  she 
eventually  gave  him  —  for  one  person  instead  of 
four  —  was,  if  possible,  more  exquisite  than  that  he 
had  countermanded;  but  she  noticed  he  ate  it  with- 
out either  attention  or  remark.  And  this  was  rare, 
for  Horn  commonly  liked  his  food,  and  talked  to 
her  very  freely,  being  interested  in  detail  in  every 
member  of  her  family,  and  all  her  pet  schemes  of 
economy  for  him  and  for  them. 

The  fact  was,  that  while  he  ate  his  truffle 
omelette,  and  his  vol-au-vent,  and  his  "  plumpoud- 
ing  froid"  and  chocolate  "mousse,"  Horn's  mind 
was  taking  long  and  perfectly  fruitless  excursions 
in  all  directions,  and  the  goal  of  its  wandering  was 


76  HERSELF 

the  real  reason  of  little  Miss  Clench's  change  of 
mind.  It  perplexed  and  harassed  him  very  much, 
having  beneath  all  his  culture  the  kind  heart  of  a 
child,  that  his  presence,  or  even  his  existence  in  the 
abstract,  could  in  any  way  be  disturbing  to  this  girl 
of  seventeen.  Of  girls  in  the  flesh  he  knew  nothing, 
though  he  had  dissected  the  workings  of  the  feminine 
heart  on  paper  a  hundred  times.  He  was  sensitive 
extremely  as  to  such :  afraid  of  going  near  the  fragile 
house  they  lived  in,  lest  an  awkward  step  or  rough 
breath  might  shatter  its  iridescent  dome.  He  had 
listened  to  Pat's  hearty  talk  of  his  little  cousin 
almost  with  shrinking;  and  he  was  supremely  dis- 
gusted—  disgusted  to  nausea  —  with  a  certain 
paper-maiden,  who  filled  a  subordinate  role  in  his 
forthcoming  play,  and  who  had  pleased  him  exceed- 
ingly in  the  invention.  This  little  Vanessa  would 
not  do:  she  must  come  out;  and  the  furious  elimina- 
tion of  Vanessa's  portrait  had  been  all  Geoffry's 
work  for  the  two  days  past. 

A  novelist's  imagination,  when  it  trespasses  on 
daily  life,  is  a  very  tiresome  thing.  Horn  had  rarely 
been  so  imprudent  as  to  break  the  glass  wall  between 
his  books  and  humanity  before.  His  books  were 
delicate  structures,  full  to  the  brim  of  himself:  for 
being  a  shy  man,  he  had  not  played  with  red-hot 
life  very  much,  though  he  had  turned  it  over  care- 
fully with  the  critic's  pincers.  To-day  his  imagina- 


VERSAILLES  77 

tion  broke  loose,  stravagued,  as  Pat  would  have  said, 
and  played  him  the  strangest  tricks.  Miss  Clench 
was  already  in  Paris,  it  informed  him  at  one  o'clock : 
and  having  finished  her  delicate,  mysterious  girl's 
business,  over  which  he  drew  a  veil,  she  arrived  at 
the  rendezvous  she  had  appointed  —  the  rendezvous 
where  Pat  was  not.  Horn  was  sure  he  was  not,  for 
when  was  Patrick  ever  punctual*?  After  waiting  a 
time,  she  would  get  indignant,  that  neat-minded 
little  girl,  and  sure  that  her  cousin  was  ill,  or  her 
letter  gone  astray,  she  would  come  up  the  Boulevard 
du  Montparnasse,  seeking  the  only  house  whose  ad- 
dress she  knew.  She  was  bound  to  come  (Geoflry 
wandered  to  the  window),  and  as  she  looked  at  the 
houses  and  counted  the  numbers,  the  ill-mannered 
art-students,  who  inhabited  all  the  attics  in  the  bye- 
streets,  would  look  at  her  and  possibly  address  her. 
(GeofTry  leant  his  gaunt  arms  on  the  balcony,  and 
screwed  his  eyes  to  peer  along  the  street  below.) 
Ignoring  them  beautifully,  as  a  well-bred  girl  could 
do,  Miss  Clench  would  find  the  house,  speak  to  the 
door-keeper,  climb  the  three  flights,  and  ring  at  his 
bell,  a  neat,  discreet  little  ring.  Mme.  Rochette 
would  go,  creaking  the  boards  as  she  moved,  and 
wiping  her  hands.  She  would  open  the  door  and  — 
well,  Horn  was  glad  Mme.  Rochette  was  there,  for 
a  wandering  girl,  Clench's  daughter  or  no,  would  be 
glad  to  see  her  robust  outline  and  kind,  shrewd  face. 


78  HERSELF 

Mme.  Rochette  had  a  girl  of  her  own,  and  spoke  of 
her  in  a  way  that  Horn  approved.  He  somehow 
thought  the  sight  of  her  would  bring  Harrie  inside, 
if  only  for  a  few  minutes.  And  she  would  sit  there, 
on  a  low  chair  in  the  salon,  and  balance  her  slim 
umbrella  across  her  knees  with  two  slim  hands;  and 
she  would  say,  in  a  voice  already  familiar  and 
unique  to  his  ears :  "  I  must  tell  you,  I  only  came  to 
you  because " 

At  this  point  the  bell  did  ring,  and  Horn  sat  down 
hastily  at  the  table,  and  tried  to  believe  he  was 
thinking  about  something  else.  It  is  terrible  how  a 
middle-aged  man's  thoughts  may  wander  in  the  half- 
hour  of  coffee-cups  after  lunch,  that  most  admirable 
moment  of  the  working-day.  After  an  interval, 
Mme.  Rochette  opened  the  door  with  a  jerk  and 
entered.  Mr.  Horn  summoned  his  most  ordinary 
tone  and  said,  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  said  Mme.  Rochette  tran- 
quilly. "  The  coffee-tray,  if  monsieur  has  finished." 

'"Oh,  yes,"  said  Horn,  removing  his  elbow  from 
it  with  agility.  He  added  lightly,  "I  thought  I 
heard  a  bell." 

"Ah?    Monsieur  has  sharp  ears." 

"Was  it  — anything?" 

"  It  was  only  a  young  person,"  said  Mme. 
Rochette,  "  arrived  to  beg.  The  concierge  should 
not  let  them  in." 


VERSAILLES  79 

"  Really? "  said  Horn,  more  discountenanced 
still;  his  eyes  were  fastened  to  the  outspread  pages 
of  his  manuscript.  "  What  did  she  —  I  mean,  what 
did  you  say?  " 

"  I  told  her  she  should  be  ashamed,"  said  Madame 
cheerfully,  clattering  the  china  together,  "  and  sent 
her  about  her  business.  She  had  no  need  to  begin 
her  history,  for  it  was  written  in  her  face." 

Her  master  remained  stationary  and  did  not  lift 
his  eyes. 

"  Remember  another  time,"  he  said,  "  to  come  to 
me." 

Madame  Rochette  opened  her  mouth  a  little  over 
the  coffee-tray,  and  stopped  dead.  She  thought  of 
three  apt  and  eloquent  answers  simultaneously,  but 
she  said  none  of  them.  She  retired  instead  in 
cautious  silence,  for  Mr.  Horn's  voice  had  been  both 
dry  and  sharp. 


VI 


THE  novelist's  imagination  was,  of  course,  com- 
pletely wrong.  Any  Irish  beggar  could  have  told 
Horn  that  a  Brian  or  a  Patrick  may  scamp  or  dawdle 
over  all  other  engagements,  but  they  will  be  neither 
remiss  nor  behindhand  in  an  appointment  with  a 
woman.  Pat  was  at  the  omnibus-bureau,  which 
Harriet's  prudent  mind  had  selected,  ten  minutes  be- 
fore her,  and  had  full  time  to  pass  in  review  the 
constantly  changing  stream  of  human  beings  that 
lively  little  stage  affords,  and  use  his  sculptor's  eye 
on  them  much  to  their  general  detriment.  He  did 
this  all  unconscious ;  for  in  the  bulk  he  intensely  ap- 
proved of  the  Parisian  crowd,  which  at  any  moment 
could  be  trusted  to  amuse  one  of  his  idle  hours  — 
and  Patrick  allowed  himself  plenty. 

Yet  his  eyes  had  been  wonderfully  busy,  as  was 
proved  when  Harriet  did  appear,  by  his  dragging 
her  off  promptly  to  the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  the 
nearest  place  where  he  could  refresh  his  gaze  on 
something  beautiful  in  form  and  limb.  They  walked 
round  the  statues  together  in  great  accord,  chatter- 


VERSAILLES  81 

ing  without  intermission  of  their  personal  affairs  for 
the  first  half-hour,  and  discussing  what  was  before 
them  not  at  all.  The  museum  was  so  full  of  people 
that  it  almost  represented  solitude;  for  nobody  could 
pay  attention  to  one  special  pair  amid  so  many, 
especially  as  both  had  caught  by  a  singular  imitative 
art  the  exact  air  and  allure  of  that  quarter  of  busy 
bohemians.  Pat's  soft  hat  was  pitched  at  an  angle 
similar  to  that  of  three-parts  of  the  young  men  in 
the  building,  and  his  brown  hair  was  neither  too  long 
nor  too  short  to  be  remarkable  in  his  community. 
His  build  and  soft  blue  eyes  came  in  as  usual  for  a 
little  cordial  notice  on  the  part  of  the  more  inquisi- 
tive and  tender-hearted  people  who  had  found  seats, 
and  had  thus  leisure  to  stare  about  them;  and  a  few 
cast  on  Harrie  a  passing  glance  of  envy.  Yet  even 
so  she  earned  not  an  instant's  disdain,  and  even 
found  some  sympathy:  for  she  matched  her  partner 
sufficiently,  and  played  up  to  him  well. 

Occasionally  the  easy  couple  paused  in  their 
wandering  and  gazed  a  minute,  still  talking.  Occa- 
sionally Harrie  raised  the  steel  point  of  her  slim 
umbrella  to  guide  her  companion's  eyes,  and  Pat, 
still  talking,  nodded.  Once  —  it  was  over  the  lovely 
little  crouching  back  of  the  Rodin  Danaide, —  he 
jerked  his  modeler's  thumb  with  a  movement  that 
approached  a  caress;  and  two  minutes  after,  as 
though  the  moment's  impression  had  reminded  him, 


82  HERSELF 

he  seized  a  pause,  and  turned  the  conversation  to  his 
work. 

Harrie  was  intent  at  once;  for  Pat,  who  had  been 
constantly  reminding  her  of  her  father,  now  came 
into  the  family,  as  it  were,  by  strides.  His  definite, 
arrogant,  uncompromising  views  on  art,  in  almost 
ridiculous  contrast  with  the  soft  drollery  of  his 
speech  and  expression;  his  childish  impatience  and 
annoyance  with  those  who  thought  otherwise;  his 
equally  naive  assumption  in  the  beginning  that  all 
the  world  agreed  with  him,  and  that  he  was  only,  in 
the  most  extravagant  statements,  finding  words  for 
a  popular  view  —  were  alike  in  a  vein  that  brought 
all  the  past  back  to  Harriet's  clinging  memory. 
Patrick,  like  Brian,  was  an  aristocrat  on  that  sub- 
ject, and  that  subject  alone;  for  like  Brian,  though 
he  boasted  abnormally  of  his  race  and  ancestors,  his 
outlook  on  society,  and  his  habit  in  it,  was  that  of 
easy  equality,  with  no  pretension  whatsoever.  Pat 
made  no  demand  on  the  world  except  to  give  him 
beauty,  but  of  that  he  exacted  a  supply.  If  Paris 
failed  in  the  commodity  for  a  moment  of  the  year, 
he  took  an  expensive  ticket  into  the  country,  and 
was  hot  on  its  tracks  again.  When  tied  by  other 
distractions  to  the  town,  he  nosed  it  out  in  the  most 
unlikely  places,  and  wasted  half  an  hour  admiring 
a  sunbeam  or  the  cloud-reflections  in  a  puddle,  when 
he  had  gone  out  to  buy  bread.  He  was  one  of  those 


VERSAILLES  83 

people  —  a  class  apart  in  humanity  —  who  always 
hang  on  a  river  parapet;  and  he  knew  the  view  by 
heart,  in  both  directions,  from  every  one  of  the 
seven-and-twenty  bridges  that  Paris  boasts.  Harrie 
could  see  him,  in  her  tender  imagination,  lounging 
with  his  soft  hat  crushed  over  his  brow,  and  his  soft 
eyes  resting  on  the  ever-flowing  current  beneath  him, 
so  much  more  useful  than  he,  but  which  to  him 
represented  loveliness,  and  loveliness  alone. 

There  was  a  practical  side  to  Harrie's  close  atten- 
tion too,  as  well  as  a  sentimental  one ;  but  she  gained 
no  clear  assurance,  from  any  of  her  cousin's  tirades, 
that  the  work  of  his  heart  was  pecuniarily  profitable. 
On  the  contrary,  she  was  assured  that  it  was  impos- 
sible in  Paris  even  to  get  adequate  recognition,  with- 
out a  little  balance  at  your  banker's  to  help  you  on. 
There  was  "  Cupid  in  Exile,"  for  example,  the 
nearest  Patrick  had  ever  come  to  a  "  really  straight 
expressive  thing,"  patiently  awaiting  a  miracle  for 
his  translation  into  marble  and  the  Salon.  Patrick 
did  not  boast  about  his  work  extensively,  but  he 
"  had  an  idea  "  that  Cupid  would  pass  the  critics 
without  many  words  wasted,  though  there  would  be 
nothing  fit  for  him  to  look  at  on  arrival.  Cupid, 
Harrie  gathered,  would  bear  this  in  order  to  be 
looked  at  himself;  and  seeing  him  through  Patrick's 
eyes,  she  began  to  love  him  even  as  his  creator  did. 

"He's  in  exile,"  said  Pat,  with  infinite  sad  ex- 


84  HERSELF 

pression,  "  and  so'm  I,  and  so's  you  and  all  of  us." 
They  stood  at  the  top  of  the  sculpture  room  and 
looked  back  upon  it.  "  Look  round  at  this  little 
roomful  smirking,  Harrie,  all  in  their  pretty  white- 
ness. They  came  to  their  own  with  no  fuss,  because 
their  owners  had  the  ducats  in  pocket,  no  doubt.  It 
troubles  me  at  times  to  think  that  Cupid  —  of  all 
boys  in  creation  —  has  not  got  home.  After  all, 
there'd  surely  be  a  few  to  care  for  him." 

"  So  there  would,"  Harrie  agreed,  following  his 
eyes  to  the  innumerable  holiday  couples  circulating 
affably  in  the  hall.  "  And  there's  no  way  of  stretch- 
ing to  pay  for  his  debut,  Patrick?  He  would  not  be 
as  expensive  as  a  girl." 

"  The  next,"  said  Patrick,  his  eyes  coming  to  rest 
on  her,  "  will  be  a  girl,  very  probably." 

"  I'm  asking  you  in  earnest,"  said  Harrie. 

"  The  only  way  to  stretch  to  pay  him,"  said  Pat, 
"  would  be  to  stretch  my  credit  with  Horn.  And 
I've  a  notion  he  won't  stretch  to  it,  to  tell  the  truth. 
It's  surely  a  pity,  but  he's  beginning  to  see  through 
me." 

"How  much  do  you  owe  him?"  said  Harrie, 
frowning  lightly  as  she  had  often  frowned  on  Brian. 

"  I  meant  to  pay  him  some  to-night,"  said  Pat, 
giving  a  jingle  to  his  pockets.  "  I've  got  my  allow- 
ance come  to  me  very  timely.  It'll  be  some  twelve 
hundred  francs,  I  dare  say,  by  now.  Not  but  what 


VERSAILLES  85 

he  can  stand  it  easy.  He  seems  to  have  a  banker 
that  trusts  him,  Horn." 

"A  childhood's  friend,  possibly,"  said  Harrie. 
"  Speaking  sense,  Patrick  dear,  does  the  money  come 
to  him,  or  has  he  done  the  work  to  earn  it?  I  should 
like  to  know  about  Mr.  Horn." 

"Why4?"  said  Pat,  his  eyes  strolling  over  her 
with  untiring  satisfaction. 

"  Because  I  seem  to  have  heard  his  name.  It's  a 
name  spoken  of  somewhere,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  do  not  know  where  it  should  be,"  said  Pat, 
"  unless  in  heaven,  a  place  where  I  hope  you  will  not 
go  yourself  just  yet.  Horn  is  a  good  man,  with  a 
heart  as  tender  as  a  baby's,  and  a  voice  in  anger  to 
which  the  King  of  England  himself  would  give 
heed.  He  has  written  some  books,  they  inform  me, 
in  the  place  he  came  from." 

"  Books?  "  said  Harrie.  "  I  have  had  barely  any 
time  for  English  books.  Did  he  ever  write  a  maga- 
zine article?  " 

"  I'd  be  ready  to  be  sure  he  did,"  said  Patrick,  "  if 
you  will  be  sure  as  well." 

"Ask  him  for  me,  then,  Patrick:  and  you  need 
not  tell  him  I  was  enquiring." 

"  But  that  will  be  the  only  part  of  it  I'll  remem- 
ber," protested  the  young  gentleman. 

"After  all,"  said  Harrie,  as  though  to  herself, 
"you  must  learn  some  time  to  be  useful.  Come 


86  HERSELF 

now,  and  let  us  go  on  an  omnibus  somewhere.  My 
head  is  tired  of  this  heat,  and  so  many  white  things 
at  once  are  worrying  me." 

So  they  aired  themselves  on  an  omnibus,  and 
either  the  keen  east  wind,  or  her  thoughts,  made 
Harriet  silent.  Presently  Pat  saw  a  shopwindow 
which  offered  tea,  and  observed  that  the  three  letters 
drew  him. 

"What's  tea?"  said  Harrie.  "I  believe  I've 
forgotten  the  smell  of  it." 

"  Which  is  no  doubt  how  you've  not  got  a  red 
nose,"  said  Patrick. 

"  Have  you  ever  looked  at  all  the  women  in  a  tea- 
shop?" 

"  Naturally  not,  since  it's  five  years  since  I've 
drunk  it." 

"  Would  you  come  back  to  it?  "  said  Patrick. 

"  With  passion,"  said  Harriet,  "as  to  all  things 
Irish.  The  teapot  on  the  hearth  is  where  our  exiles 
leave  their  heart,  isn't  it?  —  to  keep  it  warm  till 
they  return." 

So  the  next  time  the  omnibus  stopped,  they  got 
down,  and  walked  at  leisure  along  an  unknown 
boulevard  till  they  found  the  tea-shop  of  their  first 
choice.  It  may  be  remarked  that  they  passed  many 
other  places,  and  better  ones,  so  powerful  is  senti- 
ment on  the  least  occasion. 

They  were  at  first  a  party  of  three  in  the  shop,  for 


VERSAILLES  87 

there  was  an  extremely  friendly  waiting-maid,  and 
Patrick  at  least  was  not  capable  of  the  rudeness  of 
repulsing  her.  She  had  missed  her  day  out,  it 
seemed,  owing  to  some  despotic  ordinance:  and 
Patrick  wanted  to  know  with  whom  she  had  been 
going  to  walk,  and  Harriet,  what  they  paid  her  for 
the  extra  service.  She  thought  them  both  delight- 
ful, but  did  not  fail  to  charge  them  heavily,  whether 
for  the  tea  or  her  enlightening  conversation. 

There  was  a  brisk  war  of  words  between  the 
cousins  over  the  bill,  and  then  Harrie  paid  it. 
When  it  had  disappeared,  and  the  waitress  also, 
Miss  Clench  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
looked  in  her  companion's  face. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  a  moment,"  she 
said,  in  her  most  capable  manner.  "  That  money," 
she  indicated  the  coins  he  had  laid  out  on  the  table, 
"  is  Mr.  Horn's.  At  least  destined  for  him,  and  due. 
You've  mentioned  as  much  lately." 

"And  what  then4? "  purred  Patrick,  whom  tea 
had  put  in  the  best  conceivable  humor. 

"  You  and  me  are  all  the  family,  all  that's  left  of 
it  at  least,  for  the  moment.  I  don't  like  you  to  be 
taking  a  stranger's  money:  I'd  sooner  you  used 
mine." 

A  pause.  "Have  you  got  any?"  queried  Pat: 
as  it  were,  open  to  persuasion,  but  reserving  a  choice 
to  his  private  sense  of  delicacy. 


88  HERSELF 

"  I  have  some  of  my  father's,  and  you're  the  first 
claimant  on  it,  for  he  used  your  mother's,  as  you 
know.  I'm  to  suppose  you  have  heard  that  story." 

"  You  are  to  suppose  it,  mavourneen.  But  you 
will  not  let  it  trouble  you."  Pat  became  the  picture 
of  deprecating  courtesy. 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Harrie,  "  when  the  debt  is 
fairly  paid.  Have  you  any  means  of  knowing  what 
it  was?" 

"  None  short  of  asking  Brian:  and  it's  not  you  or 
myself  would  do  that.  I  have  never,"  added  Pat, 
with  obvious  sincerity,  "  thought  at  all  about  it." 

"  If  I  had  thought  you  had,"  returned  Harrie,  "  I 
should  not  speak  so  freely."  She  extended  involun- 
tarily the  little  right  hand  of  friendship,  and  Pat 
grasped  her  bare  fingers. 

"  Our  situation,"  she  said,  after  a  pause  of  eager 
thinking,  "  is  not  quite  common.  Most  people  meet 
to  make  history,  do  they  not*?  But  you  and  me 
have  history  behind  us.  Do  you  feel  it  the  same 
way? "  t 

"  Powerfully,"  said  the  boy,  dropping  his  long 
lashes.  "  There  are  men  behind  us,  and  women  you 
don't  see  now.  When  I  think  of  them  all  —  on  my 
honor,  Harrie,  it's  back,  and  not  forward,  I'd  be 
going  if  I  could.  Whenever  the  noises  stop,  in  this 
city  or  my  first  one,  all  the  past  is  singing  to  me. 
Sometimes  I  might  say,  as  you  said  that  day  we  met, 


VERSAILLES  89 

it's  but  the  half  of  me  that  is  here  at  all.  The  waste 
lot  that  we  are !  "  He  struck  the  marble  table. 

"  I  thought  so,"  the  girl  said,  watching  his  down- 
cast face  intently.  "  Only  you  must  go  forward,  all 
the  same.  You  shall  not  be  waste,  your  mother's 
son.  Listen  now  again  and  tell  me.  What  steps 
have  you  now  in  front  of  you,  that  you  could 
take?" 

"  Nothing  but  Cupid,  and  the  English  school." 

"  The  school  is  a  fixture,  is  it  not?  " 

"Worse  luck,"  he  said,  still  not  looking  at  her. 
"  It's  got  uglier  by  being  certain,  as  things  do." 

"  Well,"  said  Harrie,  "  Cupid  will  not  get  uglier 
by  being  certain,  and  that  certainty  I  can  give 
you."  The  boy  lifted  his  eyes,  luminous  suddenly. 
"You'd  like  it,  wouldn't  you?"  she  said.  "He 
shall  turn  white,  and  step  upon  a  pedestal,  and  I 
shall  be  proud  to  see  to  it.  Once  on  exhibition,  you 
may  sell  him,  so  it's  only  —  what  is  the  word  for 
money  spent  like  that?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  several,"  said  Patrick,  "  when  I  be- 
gin to  think,  but  there's  no  word  good  enough  I  can 
lay  tongue  to  at  present."  He  laid  his  other  hand 
on  hers.  "  Oh,  but  now  indeed  I'll  have  the  heart  to 
finish  him,"  he  said,  and  drowned  her  with  his 
expressive  gaze. 

"  Finish?  "  she  cried,  "but  you  must!  He  is  to 
be  the  very  best  you  can  do  in  this  life,  before  the 


90  HERSELF 

other  falls  on  you.  Think  of  that  and  work  to 
Easter  as  you  have  never  worked.  As  for  the  good 
words,  give  them  to  Brian,  for  this  is  him,  not  me. 
Would  not  Brian  launch  your  Cupid,  if  he  was 
here*?  None  readier,  as  you  know,  in  a  work  like 
that." 

"  You  make  it  better  at  every  word,"  said  Pat. 
"  It's  as  though  himself  were  there.  Speak  low  like 
that,  and  I'll  listen  forever." 

"  Listen  to  the  sense,"  his  cousin  warned  him.  "  I 
would  make  my  voice  like  a  corncrake's  if  it  would 
bring  sense  nearer  to  you.  I  shall  give  you  the 
money  as  you  need  it,"  she  added,  having  unlocked 
her  hand,  "  and  you  will  pay  Mr.  Horn  a  bit  at  a 
time,  in  the  way  that  seems  most  natural.  I  wish 
you  to  be  free  of  him,  do  you  understand4?  " 

"  I  follow,"  said  Patrick,  lifting  his  brows.  "  But 
Horn's  a  good  fellow." 

"  Just  because  of  that,  because  he's  a  true  friend, 
and  English,  I  wish  you  to  be  free.  The  English  are 

not  like  us,  in  money  things  I  mean "  The  girl, 

feeling  ungrateful,  stopped. 

"  Don't  you  like  Horn?  "  said  Pat,  with  a  glint 
df  eagerness. 

"  I  do  not  know  him."  She  colored,  and  he  mis- 
interpreted the  blush. 

Though  he  played  fast  and  loose  with  facts,  Pat 
had  a  great  tenacity  for  impressions;  and  he  set 


VERSAILLES  91 

down  in  some  corner  of  his  mind,  where  impressions 
were  safe  to  keep  for  years,  that  Harriet  had  an 
antipathy  for  Mr.  Horn.  It  raised  his  spirits,  in  a 
manner  he  made  no  effort  whatever  to  explain,  be- 
yond that  in  some  way  the  consciousness  cut  the  pair 
of  them  off  more  completely  from  the  common 
world,  and  so  left  them  nearer  together. 

"Are  you  two  married4?"  said  the  shop-girl, 
when  Pat  gave  her  his  generous  fee. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  replied. 

"Never,"  said  Harriet  smoothly.  "We're  too 
near  in  blood.  Had  you  not  noticed  we  were  brother 
and  sister?  Well,  to  think  of  that." 

"  That  was  a  slap  for  me,"  said  the  young  gentle- 
man in  the  street,  looking  at  her  through  his  eye- 
lashes. 

"It's  my  real  feelings,  and  she  drew  them  out  of 
me.  The  question,"  said  Miss  Clench  with  decision, 
"  was  impertinent." 

"  You  think  she  meant  more?  " 

"They  always  do  in  this  city.  Their  spoken 
word  swims  in  meaning,  yet  it  hits  its  purpose  clean. 
Our  language,"  added  Harriet,  with  truth,  "  is  apt 
to  go  more  roundabout." 

"  You  talk  clever  enough  for  a  book  when  you 
forget,"  scoffed  Patrick.  "  I'd  tell  that  to  Horn  for 
his  new  piece,  if  I'd  a  chance  to  remember  any  of  it." 

"  Just  in  those  ways,"  said  Harrie,  coming  nearer 


92  HERSELF 

to  confide,  and  taking  his  arm,  "  in  putting  off  rude 
people,  and  getting  what  I  want,  and  making  my 
way,  I  am  clever.  I've  made  myself  be  it,  by  prac- 
tising." 

"  You've  wit  enough  to  make  the  way  for  two," 
said  Pat,  saying  with  his  admirable  carelessness 
exactly  the  right  thing. 

"  That's  what  I've  practised,"  said  Harrie,  show- 
ing a  little  flush  of  excitement. 

"  You  mean  to  be  two,  darlin'  ^  Well,  it's  not 
you  that  would  have  the  difficulty." 

"  I  mean  to  be  two,  before  many  years  are  out. 
Pat,  do  you  think  I  could  bear  it  forever,  being  left 
like  this*?  I  must  have  him  with  me,  I  have  deter- 
mined it." 

"  It's  Brian,"  said  Patrick,  disappointed.  "  Well, 
so  long  as  it's  no  other  man,  but  one,  and  that's  my- 
self. How  will  you  catch  him,  let  me  hear." 

"  Oh,  if  I  dared  to  tell  you !  Some  time  I  will." 
She  stopped,  to  shake  and  unfold  her  little  umbrella, 
for  it  had  begun  to  rain.  She  lifted  her  chin,  and 
looked  skywards,  the  shape  of  brow  and  jaw  clean- 
marked  under  the  sharp  line  of  her  hat.  It  was  a 
grand  look  of  mockery  and  defiance  she  presented  to 
the  last  light  of  the  wintry  sky.  Pat  appreciated  it, 
as  he  appreciated  the  steely  gleam  thrown  off  here 
and  there  from  wet  patches  of  the  rain-swept  boule- 
vard, along  which  sparse  yellow  lamps  now  returned 


VERSAILLES  93 

an  answering  glow.  He  loved,  as  all  do  who  have 
studied  them,  a  great  city  street  between  the  lights, 
its  glass  catching  an  unwilling  sunset,  its  trees  bend- 
ing, and  its  pavements  sleek  with  rain.  And  the 
little  figure  at  his  side  was  in  tune  with  it,  welcom- 
ing rain  and  wind,  and  night  and  day,  good  fortune 
and  ill  alike,  so  she  could  follow  her  course  and  see 
one  desire  clear  at  the  end  of  it. 

"  Come  under  the  shelter,"  said  Pat  suddenly 
compassionate  in  the  midst  of  his  admiration.  "  It's 
gusty,  and  you've  not  the  strength  to  stand  —  not 
to  mention  your  fine  hat  will  be  spoiled  entirely." 

Harrie  laughed,  succumbed,  and  followed  him. 
She  had  no  notion  where  they  were,  and  she  greatly 
doubted  if  Patrick  had  either;  but  she  did  not  intend 
to  trouble  herself  to-night,  the  whole  day's  adven- 
ture was  too  preposterous.  She  thought  of  Madame 
in  her  little  office,  of  Genevieve  in  the  kitchen,  and 
her  eyes  danced  gleefully.  What  would  they  say  — 
what  could  they  think  —  to  see  her  here? 

They  stood  together  during  the  shower  under  a 
porte-cochere  in  the  unknown  street,  and  conversed 
with  a  stray  cat  that  was  also  sheltering  there,  and 
noticed  a  rainbow  through  a  space  in  the  houses,  and 
pursued  easy  theories  as  to  where  they  were  on  the 
evidence  of  placarded  omnibuses  which  passed  them. 
Harrie  did  not  refer  to  her  interrupted  confidence, 
but  she  was  a  little  more  absent  than  she  had  been, 


94  HERSELF 

and  when  the  gleam  of  sun  definitely  died  out,  and 
the  rain  grew  simultaneously  lighter,  she  had  the 
curious  impulse  to  look  at  her  watch. 

"  What's  that  for*?  "  said  Pat,  surprised. 

"  The  watch?    For  seeing  the  time." 

"Who's  silly  now?  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
to  look  at  the  clock  at  all,  unless  it's  supper-time?  " 

"  I  thought  I  might  be  home  to  supper.  You  see, 
the  other  maitresse  is  out  as  well." 

"  That's  the  more  reason  for  you  to  be.  Home  to 
dinner,  and  you  call  that  a  day!  Listen:  you  have 
to  come  to  the  Opera  to-night  with  me." 

"  The  Opera?  Patrick  dear,  I  cannot.  I  have 
not  the  money,  nor  the  clothes  for  it,  nor  the  time." 
She  lifted  a  look  to  him,  comically  imploring. 

"  I  have  the  tickets,"  returned  Patrick  serenely. 
"  And  I've  time  for  two  as  well,  and  your  clothes 
will  do.  It's  only  the  little  opera,  and  it's  not  the 
grandest  seats  I've  taken."  He  showed  her  the  slips 
of  paper,  with  a  mixture  of  childish  exultation  and 
cajolery,  almost  irresistible. 

"  It's  the  hopeless  boy  you  are,"  sighed  Harrie, 
having  ejaculated  at  the  figure.  "  How  can  you 
and  me  afford  that,  standing  as  we  are?  Oh  dear, 
oh  dear,  and  who's  singing?  " 

Patrick  told  her,  and  what.  "  I  should  not  have 
asked,"  said  Harrie,  her  brows  lifted  and  looking  at 
the  rain. 


VERSAILLES  95 

"  They've  nothing  tremendous,"  said  Pat,  "  but  I 
thought  you'd  like  it  better  than  nothing  to  finish 
the  day." 

"  Be  quiet  with  your  modesty.  You're  as  proud 
of  yourself  as  you  can  be.  Why  didn't  you  warn 
me?" 

"  I  was  late  to  get  them,"  said  Pat  cheerfully. 
"  I  tried  for  the  '  Rhine-gold,'  but  all  the  seats  were 
gone  a  week  ago.  That  would  have  been  brighter 
for  you  than  Orpheus'  lamenting.  But  it's  a  respect- 
able piece,"  he  added,  with  a  glint  at  her  sidelong. 
"  Nice  for  a  little  girl  to  see  in  my  company." 

"  '  Rheingold's '  what  the  other  mistress  has  gone 
to  see,"  said  Harrie.  "  But  she  got  leave  to  wait  for 
the  last  train.  And  I  said  I  should  certainly  be 
home  at  nine  to  put  the  children  to  bed,  for  Madame 
is  dining  with  her  brother  in  Paris,  and  will  fetch 
the  Fraiilein  home." 

"  And  why  should  it  be  you?  "  said  Pat. 

"  Well,  I'm  a  lot  younger  than  either  of  them," 
said  Harrie  demurely.  "  Bertha  Lindt  must  be 
twenty-seven,  and  Madame' s  twice  that.  Besides, 
I'm  there  to  be  useful,  that's  my  raison  d'etre." 

"Your  what?"  ejaculated  Pat.  "I'll  find  you 
another  if  you  leave  me  alone.  Raison  d'etre  in- 
deed, the  ideas  you  have !  It'll  be  time  enough  when 
you're  ninety  to  be  useful,  I  hope." 

"  I  doubt  it'll  be  too  late,  then,"  said  Harrie;  but 


96  HERSELF 

her  smile  was  surrender.  "  It  won't  be  so  late  as  the 
big  opera  after  all,"  she  murmured,  "  and  I  can  go 
before  the  ballet.  I  dare  say  I'll  catch  the  train 
before  the  last." 

"  You  shall  catch  any  train  you  wish,"  said  Pat, 
with  most  cheerful  optimism,  "  or  all  of  them,  so 
long  as  you  do  not  think  or  trouble  about  it,  at  the 
time  or  now." 

"I  must  go  and  buy  some  gloves,"  Harrie  ob- 
served to  herself.  "  The  expense  you  put  me  to, 
wicked  boy." 

"  I'll  go  and  buy  them  with  you.  I'd  like  to  buy 
you  gloves,"  said  Patrick.  "  And  after  that  we'll 
dine  at  a  good  place.  Now  let  us  consider  what  we 
shall  have  for  dinner,  you  and  me." 


VII 


GEOFFRY  HORN  dined  with  a  friend,  a  critic  on 
some  paper.  When  invited  to  help  fill  a  box  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  in  order  to  pass  judgment  on  a  new 
Alsatian  contralto,  he  agreed  with  some  unwilling- 
ness. His  play  was  teasing  him,  as  such  things  do, 
and  the  blank  which  the  little  Vanessa  had  filled  in 
its  personnel  seemed  to  crave  for  occupation.  Geoffry 
was  aware  of  this  craving,  and  little  else.  It  was 
no  remedy  for  such  hungry  discontent  to  go  and  see 
other  people  enjoying  themselves.  He  preferred  to 
return  and  mope  at  home.  There  was  always  the 
chance,  too,  that  Morough  had  got  back  from  his 
outing,  and  was  inclined  to  talk  about  it.  Morough 
was  an  amusing  fellow5  especially  when  he  had  had 
a  pleasant  day. 

So  pondering,  Horn  declined  the  invitation 
absently:  and  then,  seeing  his  friend's  face,  changed 
his  mind  and  accepted.  It  seemed  poor  Vauthier 
was  alone,  which  he  had  not  realized;  and  after  all, 
the  singer  might  conceivably  be  able  to  do  justice  to 
the  music.  She  hailed  at  least  from  the  German 
side  of  France. 


98  HERSELF 

As  things  turned  out,  the  entertainment  soothed 
him.  The  Gluck  public  is  not  a  noisy  one,  and  — 
as  was  fitting  to  Orpheus'  shadowy  story  —  house 
and  stage  were  continuously  dark.  The  singer  was 
not  first-rate,  and  M.  Vauthier  had  enough  after 
the  second  act,  and  determined  to  retire  to  the 
"  Varietes,"  whither  he  invited  his  companion  to 
attend  him  —  fruitlessly. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Vauthier  with  a  shrug,  "  then, 
all  I  can  say  is,  you  had  better  find  a  little  lady  to 
fill  my  seat  —  hem?"  He  looked  at  Horn's  long 
melancholy  figure  with  affection,  for  he  liked  him. 
Horn  could  both  listen  and  talk,  a  combination  of 
qualities  which  is,  after  all,  very  rare. 

"  The  little  lady  is  already  in  occupation,"  said 
Horn.  "  I  may  mention  she  is  coming  back,  Jacques, 
thanks  to  your  company  and  Elysian  melody." 

"  You  and  your  Vanessas,"  scoffed  Vauthier,  who 
was  in  his  confidence.  "It's  my  dinner  you  have 
to  thank,  more  likely.  You  should  eat  more,  my 
friend,  or  these  abstractions  never  will  come  true. 
Come  and  get  a  drink  before  parting,  hey?  " 

Horn  went  agreeably,  being  used  to  the  necessity 
of  changing  place  often  and  rapidly  in  Vauthier's 
company;  the  only  thing  he  refused  to  change  was 
his  mood.  He  was  dreamy,  and  Vauthier  scoffed  at 
him  in  vain.  He  did  not  even  trouble  to  study  the 
couples  scattered  about  at  the  little  tables  of  the 


VERSAILLES  99 

buffet,  though  they  occupied  a  retired  corner  excel- 
lently adapted  for  spying.  Vauthier  made  the  best 
of  his  chances,  and  interspersed  his  friend's  mono- 
logue on  his  peculiar  view  of  stagecraft  with  a 
running  commentary  on  the  company.  Only  when 
the  bell  rang  for  the  last  act,  and  the  hall  began  to 
clear,  had  he  leisure  really  to  attend  to  Horn  and 
his  lay-figures,  which  seemed  even  to  that  strange 
person  more  alive,  more  momentous,  more  serious 
in  their  significance  and  the  destiny  they  fulfilled, 
than  any  of  the  merry  throng  flirting  about  him,  at 
which  he  refused  to  look. 

Nor  did  Horn  seem  in  a  hurry  to  return  to  Gluck's 
private  dream-world  on  the  stage.  From  where  he 
sat  the  music  was  very  soothing,  being  sufficiently 
distant  to  veil  its  faults  in  execution.  Horn  was  a 
bit  of  an  exquisite,  and  after  a  long  and  mixed 
experience,  still  showed  shyness  in  attending  the 
performance  of  that  select  circle  of  things  he  really 
loved.  The  story  went  of  him  that  on  a  gala  opera- 
night,  when  the  first  of  the  "  Ring-cycle  "  was  to 
be  given,  he  had  begun  by  turning  his  back  on  the 
stage;  after  an  interval  he  had  then  stopped  his 
ears,  quite  absently,  and  remained  to  the  end  of 
the  act  with  his  eyes  on  the  score.  At  the  close 
he  agreed  with  his  neighbors  that  the  music  was 
wonderfully  persuasive,  and  left  the  theater,  to 
everybody's  satisfaction  and  chiefly  his  own.  Yet 


100  HERSELF 

this  story,  or  as  much  of  it  as  was  true,  belonged  to 
his  youth;  and  the  years  that  had  intervened  had 
brought  tolerance  with  them.  He  had  at  least  some 
small  personal  knowledge  of  the  crowd  of  poor 
earnest  artists,  more  cramped  and  hustled  as  one 
went  down  the  ladder,  and  often  more  deserving 
also.  The  heaven  of  his  private  ideal  had  not  dis- 
appeared, but  it  had  enlarged  its  gates  to  take  into 
account  humanity,  each  member  of  it  fighting  for  an 
ideal  as  sweet  to  them  as  his  had  been  once  to  him, 
and  many  of  whom  had  staked  and  lost  far  more 
than  he  had  ever  ventured  in  the  strife. 

For  GeofTry  Horn,  in  spite  of  small  ups  and 
downs  of  fortune,  had  been  incorrigibly  prosperous. 
Money,  the  key  to  almost  all  the  beauty  of  life, 
clung  firmly  to  him,  generously  though  he  handed 
it  out  to  all  who  needed  help.  Being  a  just  man, 
this  abiding  sense  of  possession  had  also  lent  him 
humility  in  regarding  the  crowd,  among  the  toiling 
and  scuffling  masses  of  which  his  art  found  its 
material.  Had  he  been  now  in  a  pawn-shop,  instead 
of  this  gilded  pleasure-house  of  the  bourgeoisie,  he 
would  have  been  less  inattentive  to  his  surroundings. 
It  was  only  the  eternal  theme  of  vanity  wearied  him 
rather,  and  turned  his  mind  for  pasture  in  upon 
itself. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  Vauthier  at  last. 
"  It  would  need  more  time  than  I  can  spare  to  prove 


VERSAILLES  101 

you  wrong.  You  will  appreciate  the  desire,  mon 
cher,  nevertheless.  Your  view  of  women  in  itself 
Sapristi !  who  is  that?  " 

Horn  started  at  the  same  moment,  for  the  little 
electric  thrill  he  felt  in  Vauthier's  arm  stirred  him 
as  such  symptoms  do. 

"What  now?"  he  said. 

"  That  girl  —  of  all  midnight  marvels !  American, 
is  she?  She  must  be  American,  to  be  alone." 

Then  Horn  saw  her,  and  knew  that  his  Vanessa 
had  come  to  life  indeed.  A  slight  pale  girl  in  black, 
with  a  white-winged  hat  slung  on  her  arm,  had 
stepped  into  the  now  open  space  and  approached 
the  buffet.  Nothing  remained  of  the  throng,  for  the 
last  act  had  started,  but  a  group  of  young  men 
drinking  round  a  table  and  leaning  on  the  counter. 
Neither  of  the  friends  in  their  retired  corner  could 
hear  for  what  she  asked,  for  her  voice  was  low. 
But  they  saw  the  waitress  stare,  the  group  of  men 
pause  open-mouthed,  and  the  waiters  whisper  and 
rake  her  insolently  with  their  eyes.  Before  it  could 
reach  the  next  stage  of  muttering  or  mockery, 
Geoffry  Horn  was  on  his  feet.  He  disentangled  his 
long  limbs  from  the  impeding  furniture  with  a 
clatter,  and  went  forward  with  swift  steps  to 
her  side. 

"  Miss  Clench,  you  will  allow  me,"  he  said,  using 
French  with  the  instinct  of  diplomacy.  "  A  glass  of 


102  HERSELF 

water,  is  it?  Kindly  serve  this  lady  quickly,  and 
bring  us  our  addition.  The  gentleman  has  to  go." 

"  Bien  sur  he  has  to,"  muttered  the  admiring 
Frenchmen,  "  But  he  speaks  well,  the  long  American. 
It  was  neatly  done,  upon  my  word." 

Geoffry  had  no  more  need  of  their  approval  than 
their  criticism.  He  disdained  it  for  himself  and 
loathed  it  for  Harrie.  She  looked,  he  thought,  ex- 
traordinarily pale,  and  he  was  tormenting  all  his 
faculties  to  conceive  how  she  should  come  there, 
lonely  and  left  by  Patrick,  her  true  knight.  Tired 
as  she  plainly  was  however,  her  eyes  had  not  lost 
their  spark,  nor  her  wits  their  resourcefulness.  She 
did  not  start  at  Horn's  intervention,  nor  express 
surprise,  but  greeted  him  with  a  slight  smile,  as  at  a 
familiar  friend  new  found.  He  brought  her  back  to 
his  own  retired  table,  and  presented  her  to  the 
astounded  though  rapturous  Vauthier.  Horn  really 
was  "  impayable,"  Vauthier  had  been  deciding;  with 
the  English,  at  least  the  English  of  his  make,  nothing 
was  impossible.  They  did  all  things,  whether  in 
character  or  hopelessly  out  of  it,  with  the  same 
bland,  immovable  front.  Here  was  Horn,  the 
hermit,  whose  amusement  was  a  paper  stage,  attach- 
ing to  himself  a  real  girl,  in  the  most  neat  and 
dramatic  manner  conceivable,  without  a  wink  or  a 
blush.  He  just  annexed  her,  and  brought  her  along, 
in  order  to  prove  Vauthier  at  all  points  wrong  about 


VERSAILLES  108 

him.  In  the  rush  of  these  perplexed  and  admiring 
sensations,  the  young  man  was  only  sure  of  one 
thing,  which  was  that  his  own  retreat  had  sounded. 

"  Enchanted,"  he  murmured,  delicately  bowing, 
and  retiring  as  he  did  so.  He  hardly  looked  at 
Miss  Clench,  but  he  knew  her,  as  afterwards  appeared 
in  his  descriptions,  from  the  tip  of  her  little  shoe  to 
the  last  feather  of  her  hair.  She  looked  at  him 
quite  absently,  for  her  inner  distress  was  asserting 
itself.  It  needed  a  minute,  even  after  Vauthier's 
departure,  for  her  to  choose  and  find  a  seat.  Then, 
while  Horn  fussed  among  the  glasses,  she  was  able 
to  collect  herself,  and  grip  her  thoughts  again. 

"  You  think  it's  odd  of  me  to  be  here,"  she  said, 
in  her  worn  little  tone  at  last. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Horn  at  random.  "  Delighted. 
Quite  a  dramatic  encounter." 

"  There  you're  mistaken,"  said  Harrie,  gathering 
force.  "  Dramatic' s  no  word.  It's  quite  an  ordinary 
thing  that  has  happened,  but  of  course  it  needs 
explaining." 

"They  have  quarreled,"  thought  Horn.  "Oh, 
my  prophetic  soul,  the  Irish !  "  But  he  said,  "  There 
is  no  need  to  explain  anything  for  me,  Miss  Clench. 
You  are  too  tired,  for  one  thing." 

"Well,"  she  said,  in  the  pause.  "And  what's 
the  other?" 

"  I,"  said  Horn,  blushing,   "  am  not  worth  ex- 


104  HERSELF 

plaining  to.  I  mean,  I  am  just  a  bystander,  there 
to  be  useful  as  I  said  before." 

She  bowed  her  fair  head,  a  very  little.  "You 
were  useful  a  minute  since,"  she  said.  "  I  admit  it, 
and  I  thank  you." 

"  You  said  you  collected  the  useful  people,"  said 
Horn,  wondering  how  he  dared  to  say  it.  "  If  you 
will  just  collect  me,  and  count  on  me,  it's  all  I  ask." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  protesting,  "  as  if  I  ever  meant, 
useful  to  me !  Excuse  me  if  I  defend  my  word,  but 
it's  not  so  easy  to  be  collectable  as  that."  She 
rested  her  head  upon  her  hands.  "  It's  silly  I  am," 
she  murmured  vaguely,  her  eyes  searching  the  hall 
as  though  for  possible  escape. 

Horn's  heart  beat  madly,  with  pity  and  rage,  but 
he  kept  his  front  of  serenity.  He  seized  any  attain- 
able generalities  to  give  her  time,  for  he  really 
feared  she  might  faint. 

"  I  count  society  as  a  pie,"  he  observed,  "  or  a 
pudding,  shall  we  say*?  Some  bring  plums  to  it, 
some  sugar  and  spice  —  some  salt  —  some  build  up 
the  solid  substance,  some  leaven  it  with  merriment. 
Few  but  can  add  a  grain  to  its  goodness,  and  none 
but  can  at  least  give  things  a  stir.  Am  I  talking 
nonsense4?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  You  have  my  idea.  To  stir  is 
the  thing."  She  seemed  watching  him  round  her 
hand  rather  nervously,  Horn  realized  that  he  had 


VERSAILLES  105 

taken  her  aback,  this  resourceful  little  woman,  just 
as  he  had  at  their  first  meeting.  Whatever  her 
quaint  philosophy  was,  she  could  not  work  him  in. 
Her  eyes  seemed  enquiring,  shyly  curious,  ringed 
with  genuine  fatigue  as  they  were  to-night. 

"  To  stir  is  the  thing.  Whatever  you  do,"  said 
Geoff ry,  admiring  himself,  "  you  mustn't  stand  aside 
and  say  the  whole  is  useless  muck,  and  there  are 
better  receipts  for  making  it." 

"  No,"  she  agreed  again.  "  After  all,  they  never 
have,  the  great  ones,  have  they?  " 

"  And,"  he  concluded,  rolling  the  remnant  of 
liqueur  in  his  glass,  "  you  must  not,  whatever  you 
do,  spend  all  the  time  nibbling  at  the  paste." 

"  Not  all,"  she  assented,  and  sighed.  "  Oh,  you 
know,  then,  it's  all  right.  How  did  I  come  here,  at 
all,  to  talk  to  you?  " 

In  the  blank  pause,  a  distant  ineffable  cadence  of 
Gluck's  pure  melody  reached  them.  It  fell  into 
Horn's  dream,  and  he  thought  eternity  spoke. 

"  Listen,"  said  Harrie,  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you, 
and  you  can  judge  me  silly  as  you  like.  Only  you 
never  know  where  the  commonest  things  will  lead 
you,  and  mine  have  led  me  here.  .  .  .  Patrick 
is  just  Brian,  Mr.  Horn,  and  I  know  him  —  I  may 
say  I  have  known  him  for  years.  You  cannot  judge 
for  the  Brian  sort  like  for  other  people.  He's  been 
angry  with  me,  and  doubtless  Brian  would  have 


106  HERSELF 

been  as  well.  At  dinner  first  he  got  excited,  for  we 
talked  of  old  things,  and  the  dinner  he  chose  was 
very  good.  Then  I  told  him  how  I  must  take  the 
early  train,  how  it  is  necessary  to  my  position,  and 
disputing  it  uplifted  him  the  more.  When  we  got 
here  the  chorus  calmed  him  a  little,  as  indeed  it 
would  calm  souls  condemned.  That  music  is  collect- 
able, Mr.  Horn,"  she  diverted,  "  for  it  has  done 
nothing  but  good  since  it  first  blew  into  the  world. 
It's  not  all  music  you  can  say  that  of,  is  it4? " 

"  It's  very  little,"  said  Horn. 

"I  think  so.  Well,  where  was  I?"  Her  brow 
knit  above  the  downcast  eyes  he  watched.  "  In  the 
entr'acte  we  walked  out  to  get  cool,  and  I  found  the 
poor  thing  —  I  mean  the  other  mistress  that  I  know 
at  Versailles.  She  has  been  dismissed,  and  has  noth- 
ing to  live  on  but  her  genius,  which  is  not  worth  a 
sou  to  her  naturally.  She  lived  through  an  awful 
week  for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  performance  of 
'Rheingold'  to-night;  but  she  got  confused  with 
going  round  the  registry  offices  all  day,  and  stupid 
with  it,  and  having  got  to  the  opera-house  over  there, 
she  found  she'd  lost  her  ticket." 

Horn  made  a  sound,  for  suddenly  he  saw. 

"Yes,  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  need  I?  Those 
things  happen  to  the  people  who  can  least  afford  it, 
I  mean  in  any  way.  All  the  people  who  go  to 
1  Rheingold '  to  show  their  clothes  had  their  tickets 


VERSAILLES  107 

tight  in  their  gloves.  As  for  her,  she  was  nearly 
frantic.  She  ran  on  here,  for  it  starts  a  little  later, 
and  paid  I  don't  know  what  for  a  ridiculous  seat. 
If  I  had  known  she  should  not  have  been  so  cheated. 
So  up  she  went  to  the  sky,  and  tried  from  there  to 
hear  the  music  that  is  her  right  —  that  is  surely  her 
right  as  a  musician,  Mr.  Horn.  But  she  couldn't  for 
the  people  chattering  outside,  and  the  heat  inside 
which  made  her  sick.  So  down  she  came  in  the 
interval  to  where  I  found  her  crying  in  the  foyer." 

"  And  you  gave  her  your  seat  for  the  last  act." 

"  I  did,  when  I  had  got  Pat  round.  He  is  very 
good-hearted,  when  you  get  at  him.  I  could  not 
have  got  Brian  to  it  so  soon." 

"  Didn't  he  offer  to  give  up  his  own  seat,  Miss 
Clench?" 

"  He  was  ready,  but  that  I  would  not.  Two  girls, 
we  should  have  been  found  out  and  bothered,  Bertha 
being  what  she  is  and  unable  to  keep  still:  but  he 
being  a  man  can  manage  it."  The  girl  paused, 
breathing  deeply,  as  at  the  recollection  of  the 
struggle  past.  "  He'll  be  tired  of  her  by  now,"  she 
said,  "  and  his  kindness  too.  I  said  perhaps  I  would 
stay  for  him,  but  as  things  are,  I  shall  have  to  go 
and  catch  my  train." 

"How  long  did  you  stay  up  there?"  demanded 
Geoffry. 

"  Not  long,"  she  said.     "  There's  no  air  at  all, 


108  HERSELF 

she's  right.  But  I  wanted  to  wait  for  the  other  Air 
—  the  Aria  —  if  I  could."  She  paused  again  a 
minute,  listening.  "  Not  that  the  woman  could  sing 
it,"  added  Harrie,  in  her  lower  sweeter  tone. 

"The  woman"  was  singing  at  the  minute;  dis- 
tant echoes  and  cadences  reached  them,  and  Horn 
saw  the  girl's  fine  throat  work,  though  the  expression 
of  her  eyes  was  still  veiled. 

"  You  sing,  don't  you,  Miss  Clench?  "  he  said. 

"  Chut,"  she  answered,  glancing  once.  "I  do  — 
that  is,  I  shall." 

"  Is  that  your  secret?  " 

"  One  of  them.  How  did  you  know  it?  I  have 
longed  to  tell  many  people  and  couldn't,  Patrick 
among  them." 

"  I  don't  count,"  said  Horn. 

"  You  mean  I  can  just  talk  to  you,  like  the  furni- 
ture? Oh,  the  blessing  it  would  be  to  have  some- 
body like  that  when  I  am  vexed  with  things. 
.  .  .  I  don't  know  what  my  voice  is  worth,"  she 
said,  still  low  and  rapidly.  "  I  may  be  wrong  about 
it  altogether,  but  Brian  will  know.  I  shall  never 
sing  till  I  can  sing  right,  and  sing  to  him.  I  have  no 
use  for  a  voice  but  that,  to  catch  and  keep  Brian. 

It's  a  net,  just  a  little  net  I've  made "  She  was 

using  her  loveliest  low  tone  as  she  spoke,  and  had 
half  risen,  her  eyes  on  him  sidelong. 


VERSAILLES  109 

"  You  do  not  mean  you  are  going,"  he  said.  "  Pat 
will  never  forgive  you." 

"It's  my  train  —  and  my  head.  I  might  as  well 
tell  you.  I  cannot  get  in  to  tell  him:  nor  could 
anyone,  however  useful  by  nature,  unless  the  police. 
I  am  just  going  away,  and  I  am  sure  from  all  points 
of  view  it  is  better  so." 

"Is  she  afraid  of  him?"  thought  Geoffry.  He 
had  an  idea.  "  If  you  wait  a  little,  Miss  Clench, 
Pat  could  escort  you  to  the  station,  and  I  could 
escort  your  friend." 

"  Oh,  dear  "  —  she  gazed,  brows  up  —  "  and 
what  would  Madame  say,  seeing  us  all*?  For 
Madame  will  be  at  the  station  too.  No,  I'll  be  good 
and  go  home  by  the  eleven-thirty.  I'm  determined 
it's  better.  I  ought  never  to  have  come  at  all." 

"Are  you  sorry  that  you  did*?" 

"Sorry4?  —  with  that  first  act  in  my  ears?  It 
was  a  Clench  thing  to  do,  however,  for  my  duty  lay 
before  me  plain." 

"  If  you  had  not  come,"  said  Horn,  following  her 
slowly,  as  she  retreated  to  arrange  her  hat,  "  you 
could  not  have  helped  Fraiilein  Lindt." 

"  I  have  not  helped  her,  to  mention.  I  ought  to 
have  done  much  more,  seeing  how  she's  placed.  I 
had  forgotten  quite  about  her  when  I  saw  her  there, 
and  her  poor  eyes  reproaching  me.  Do  not  come, 


110  HERSELF 

Mr.  Horn,"  —  she  paused  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
"  The  aria  will  be  beginning." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  You  should,  then.  She'll  do  it  better  than  the 
rest,  for  she'll  have  studied  it  for  her  last  effect.  Do 
the  poor  woman  justice.  Go  and  do  it,  will  you 
not?" 

As  she  looked  at  him,  the  spark  in  her  eye  became 
a  smile,  yet  he  felt  the  will  of  this  child  of  seventeen 
very  keenly. 

"  I  could  get  you  a  cab,"  he  pleaded. 

"  I  can  get  all  the  cab  I  want.  Now  you  will 
make  me  miss  my  train,  disputing  with  you.  Didn't 
I  go  about  New  York  at  nine  years  old?  I  am  quite 
a "  —  she  hesitated  and  took  the  usual  word  — 
"practical  person." 

Geoffry  touched  the  hand  she  extended,  and  was 
going,  when  he  glanced  back  in  spite  of  himself. 
Harriet  had  settled  her  veil,  gathered  up  her  skirts, 
and  was  preparing  to  descend.  Very  small  and 
black  she  looked  in  that  colossal,  dazzling  place, 
deserted  as  it  was,  but  for  the  theater  servants  at 
the  door. 

"  Will  you  please  excuse  my  saying  just  one 
thing,  Miss  Clench,"  murmured  Horn,  leaning  on 
the  rail. 

Harrie  looked  round,  one  hand  on  her  skirt  which 
was  lifted  deftly  off  the  stairs.  He  took  the  picture 


VERSAILLES  111 

of  her  look,  brows  oddly  raised  and  lips  together, 
while  he  spoke ;  but  he  spoke  firmly  none  the  less. 

"  You  are  simply  the  most  romantic  person  I  ever 
met." 


VIII 

PATRICK,  deserted  by  his  cousin,  was  exceedingly 
sulky  in  Fraiilein  Lindt's  company  for  exactly  five 
minutes,  and  then  she  and  he  made  simultaneously 
the  same  remark  on  a  fine  phrase,  and  he  discovered 
that  she  was  a  person  of  what  he  called  "  sense  "  — 
that  is,  sensibility.  When  he  first  saw  her,  wrapped 
in  heavy  gloom,  her  hat  knocked  crooked  in  the 
crowd,  and  her  large  blunt-fingered  hands  twitching 
with  agitation  as  she  gripped  and  explored  a  clumsy 
beaded  bag,  Pat  thought,  especially  with  the  con- 
trast of  his  little  Harrie  beside  her,  that  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  scarecrow.  But  the  sympathy  of  the 
soft-tongued  pair,  and  the  certainty  of  her  music, 
had  metamorphosed  Bertha  in  a  few  minutes.  She 
took  her  hat  off,  put  on  her  gloves,  and  became 
beaming  and  confidential.  Seen  side-face  she  was 
not  too  ill-favored;  and  when  she  spoke  in  lowered 
tones  to  Pat  of  his  cousin's  angel-nature,  and  his  own 
affability  in  adopting  the  exchange,  he  began  to  see 
why  Harriet  had  collected  her.  Over  the  music,  her 
claims  became  yet  more  clear.  Her  taste  and  judg- 


VERSAILLES  113 

ment  had  a  delicacy  which  her  appearance  and  man- 
ner lacked.  She  contradicted  Pat  and  spurred  him; 
she  nodded  with  fervor  a  dozen  times  at  his  witty 
commentary  on  the  acting,  a  light  in  her  eye,  and  a 
broad  finger  on  her  lips.  She  was,  in  short,  barring 
her  unfortunate  features,  a  good  companion  and  a 
clever  woman.  Patrick  only  remembered  to  sigh  for 
the  truant  Harrie  at  intervals,  till  the  great  crisis  on 
the  stage  was  over,  love  triumphant,  and  the  scene 
changed  for  the  ballet.  Then  he  apologized  and 
said  he  must  go:  giving  as  a  reason  when  pressed, 
that  Cupid  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  he  could  not  see 
him  travestied.  Fraiilein  Lindt's  eyebrows  lifted  to 
her  hair,  as  she  regarded  him,  drinking  in  his  aspect. 

"  You  would  rejoin  the  beloved  Miss,"  she  inter- 
preted with  her  ponderous  sincerity. 

"  That  is  what  I  meant,"  said  Patrick,  "  more  or 
less."  He  leant  with  one  knee  on  the  seat,  his 
roguish  eyes  flashing  over  her,  marveling  whether 
the  strange  animal  she  looked  could  reach  the  mean- 
ing of  his  situation,  as  well  as  that  of  the  music  on 
the  stage. 

"  You  love  her,"  murmured  Fraiilein  Lindt. 
"  Ah,  but  you  must  —  and  she  needs  kindness  so." 

"Are  they  not  good  to  her  there"?  "  said  Patrick. 

"  Not  as  we  others  understand  it,"  said  the  Swiss 
woman.  "  Also,  all  the  kindness  Miss  your  cousin 
receives,  she  gives  away  again  full-handed.  It  is 


114  HERSELF 

love,  real  love,  she  needs."  Fraiilein  Lindt  clenched 
her  powerful  hands,  speaking  her  own  language, 
which  Pat  understood  sufficiently. 

"  Good  night,  Fraiilein  Lindt,"  he  said,  a  spark  in 
his  eye.  "  You're  well  in  the  right  of  it.  I  am 
happy  to  have  met  you,  if  only  for  this  short  time." 

"  You  and  she  have  made  my  happiness " 

Bertha  was  preparing  to  vociferate :  but  he  was  gone. 
So  she  merely  wiped  her  eyes,  smiled  broadly  once 
on  vacancy,  and  proceeded  to  devote  herself  solidly 
to  the  last  sweet  dregs  of  her  cup  of  pleasure. 

Harriet,  meanwhile,  had  missed  the  train  before 
the  last  at  Montparnasse,  and  resolved,  in  view  of 
the  probable  incursion  of  Madame  Barriere  if  she 
waited,  to  take  the  tram-route  instead  from  the 
Louvre  terminus.  To  come  across  Madame  in  a 
public  station,  and  be  scolded  for  truancy  in  a  train, 
was  too  hard  a  thing  to  bear  in  prospect,  more 
especially  as  Pat  himself  might  at  any  moment  break 
in  upon  the  colloquy,  and  Harrie  had  no  wish  at  all 
for  Madame  to  see  her  and  Pat  together. 

So,  with  a  little  moue  of  forced  patience  at  the 
perversity  of  things,  she  took  her  decision,  and  was 
transported  to  the  quays,  whence  she  walked  to  the 
omnibus-bureau,  and,  sitting  demurely  on  a  bench, 
looked  out  for  her  tram.  Fortune  was  steadily 
against  her,  for  one  Versailles  car  had  just  gone  out, 


VERSAILLES  115 

and  while  she  watched  patiently  for  the  next  one,  a 
dear  friend  of  Genevieve's  who  had  also  been  to  the 
play  and  was  returning  to  Montreuil,  walked  into 
the  office. 

Harrie,  who  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of  being  con- 
tinuously agreeable,  still  less  confidential,  with  this 
young  person,  presently  seized  a  chance  to  slip  out 
of  the  crowded  little  cabin  and  stand  upon  the 
bridge.  It  was  not  so  decorous,  of  course,  but 
infinitely  more  beautiful  as  a  waiting-place.  Few 
spots  are  more  suggestive  of  romance  than  the  Pont 
des  Arts  on  a  moonlit  night:  and  this  was  a  night 
sweet  to  Harriets  Irish  instincts,  coldish  and  windy, 
with  long  rags  of  brown  cloud  which  never  quite 
left  the  moon's  face  clean,  though  she  seemed  here 
and  there,  near  or  far,  to  catch  a  burnished  point  of 
river  or  city  tile  in  which  to  wink  reflectively. 
Meanwhile,  under  the  light  bridge  the  river  swirled, 
shouldered,  and  muttered  past,  plotting  many 
rebellious  pranks,  doubtless,  if  the  rainy  season 
would  only  persist  a  little.  Ensnared  by  the  charm 
that  only  big  rivers  know,  Miss  Clench  watched  it, 
leaning  a  little  bare  hand  on  the  railing,  and  singing 
through  the  water-noises  all  unconscious  to  herself. 

"  And  is  it  singing  to  the  Seine-maidens  you 
are4? "  said  the  voice  of  the  graceless  one  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  Patrick !  "  she  cried,  swerving  with  a  start 
that  was  almost  cruel. 


116  HERSELF 

"Here,  you  bad  boy?  Did  you  not  stop  with 
Bertha  to  see  her  safe?  " 

"  She'll  be  safe,"  Patrick  asseverated,  "  with  a 
face  like  that  on  her.  It's  yourself  I  was  concerned 
about  purely,  and  have  been  since  you  left  my  side. 
Harrie,  darling,  and  did  the  Seine-maidens  like  the 
song4?  " 

He  was  on  fire  with  elation  and  excitement  at 
the  success  of  his  last  maneuver.  She  felt  rather 
than  saw  it  plainly.  He  was  in  his  most  dangerous, 
most  charming,  most  impish  mood,  and  she  was  all 
alone  with  him,  on  the  open  bridge,  at  twelve  o'clock. 
Tired  as  she  was,  she  knew  she  must  set  her  wits 
to  work  again,  or  all  the  impression  she  had  made 
at  infinite  pains  throughout  the  strenuous  day  would 
be  undone  in  a  rush  of  his  uncontrollable  spirits. 

"  How  did  you  find  me4?  "  she  cried. 

"I  just  took  my  chance,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  the 
luck  was  good  to-night  by  the  twinkle  of  the  moon. 
You  weren't  at  the  West  Station  when  I  got  there, 
so  I  thought  I'd  try  some  others,  and  looked  in  here 
on  the  way  to  them.  It  is  not  the  night  for  train- 
riding,  after  all.  I  might  have  known  you'd  be  on 
the  bridge." 

"  How  could  you  know  I  was  before  you?  "  she 
cried. 

"  Oh,  that,"  he  said  easily.  "  A  fellow  at  the  door 
had  seen  you  go." 


VERSAILLES  117 

"  Noticed  me?  "  cried  the  little  woman. 

"  Noticed  the  wings  of  you,"  laughed  Patrick  with 
a  pretty  gesture,  "  our  little  bird.  And  now  it  is  a 
singing-bird,  which  had  never  struck  me  at  all, 
though  I  knew  it  all  along."  He  put  an  arm  about 
her  as  she  stood.  Harrie  trusted  fervently  she  would 
not  be  spied  by  Mile.  Durand.  She  stood  quietly, 
and  frowned  at  the  fleeing  water,  seeking  with  all 
her  wits  to  check  his  mood.  The  Pont  des  Arts  is 
unlike  other  bridges:  there  is  not  a  shadow  on  all 
its  length.  They  were  in  far  too  public  a  position 
even  to  dispute  gaily  as  they  had  done  all  day. 
Retreat  on  the  Louvre  side  was  impossible,  for  he 
would  certainly  follow  her,  and  the  bulky  tram  was 
approaching  the  bureau.  She  must  stand  where  she 
was,  watch  Mile.  Durand  climb  in,  and  slip  into  a 
place  at  the  last  moment,  as  far  from  her  as  possible. 
Meanwhile  she  must  quench  Patrick  by  some  means. 

"  The  Seine-maidens  are  fat,"  she  said  drily,  "  and 
their  river's  dirty.  They  have  no  singing-voice  like 
the  ladies  in  the  Rhine ;  and  as  for  a  treasure  to  keep, 
they're  occupied  in  storing  sous  for  the  rag-pickers 
of  the  Latin  Quarter.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they 
pick  them  out  of  the  pockets  of  those  who  sink. 
Scraping  —  not  singing  —  that's  the  spirit  of  the 
Seine." 

"  You're  heartless  now,"  Pat  murmured;  "  and  if 
I  believed  you  thought  what  you  were  saying  —  but 


118  HERSELF 

I  do  not.  They're  not  such  bad  girls,  at  all,  I  tell 
you,  and  they're  better-dressed  than  their  German 
cousins  —  and  as  for  their  song,  you  have  but  to 
stand  against  me  here,  and  give  ear  to  what  they're 
repeating."  He  was  pressing  behind  her,  until  she 
clutched  the  bridge-rail  not  to  shrink  from  him. 
"  You're  ungrateful  too,  darlin',"  he  whispered, 
"  for  it  was  just  there  they  saved  my  life  for  me 
under  the  bridge." 

"Your  life?"  she  gasped,  with  a  start  he  felt. 
"  Pat,  you  are  surely  romancing.  I  am  silly  to  be- 
lieve you,  and  there  is  my  tram  going  to  move.  I 
have  to  go." 

"  It's  not  the  last  one,"  Pat  cajoled  her. 

"  It  is.    I  heard  them  saying  so  at  the  bureau." 

"  It  is  not,  mavourneen,  because  I  enquired;  a  man 
with  a  braided  hat  that  knew  about  it  and  reassured 
me  very  agreeably.  There  is  another  one  soon, 
within  the  hour,  that  will  suit  you  well."  He 
clasped  her  arm  with  a  hand  whose  power  she  real- 
ized, and  pressed  her  to  his  side.  She  hoped  he  did 
not  feel  the  hammering  of  her  heart. 

"  Patrick,"  she  said,  low  and  pleading,  "  I  have 
to  go." 

"  How  long  is  it,"  he  teased,  "  since  you  said  that 
first  to  me,  at  dinner  while  the  band  played  that  fine 
waltz  to  us*?  And  how  long  is  it  since  I  first  said 
you  had  to  stay*?  There  are  musts  by  day,  for  the 


VERSAILLES  119 

people  that  will  make  them,  but  never  under  the 
moon." 

Harrie  watched  the  train  of  well-lighted  cars 
move  away,  slow  but  insidious,  like  a  bulky  ark  of 
respectability,  and  within  it  Mile.  Durand,  Gene- 
vieve's  bosom-friend.  Of  course  it  was  better  that 
lady  should  go,  if  there  was  another  tram  to  follow ; 
but  she  had  little  faith  in  Patrick  at  this  juncture, 
and  seeing  the  lights  retreat  along  the  quays,  her 
heart  sank  curiously. 

"  Running  I  can  catch  it,"  she  murmured.     "  It 
will  stop  again.    Patrick  —  Mr.  Morough  —  listen : 
if  you  love  my  honor,  let  me  go." 
'-    "Your  honor,  little  one?"  he  laughed.     "Mr. 
Morough  has  it  in  his  care." 

"  I  have  given  my  word  to  be  back."  Her  voice 
shook,  for  indeed  his  tone  had  been  childish. 
"  There's  honor  in  the  professions,  and  I'm  a  pro- 
fessional woman." 

"Well,  I'll  keep  the  woman,"  said  Patrick 
promptly,  "  and  we'll  let  the  professional  go. 
Harrie,  you  are  not  anxious  to  get  back  to  that  rat- 
hole,  not  in  the  heart  of  you." 

"  My  God,"  she  muttered  in  French,  "  and  are  all 
Clenches  mad  completely"?  What  am  I  to  say  to 
him  that  he'll  believe?" 

"  I'll  believe  all,"  the  boy  cried  low  and  swiftly, 
11  but  that  you  want  to  leave  me.  Now  I  have  found 


120  HERSELF 

you  out,  in  this  great  trap  of  a  world,  why  should 
we  part  again?  The  trick  was  not  worthy  of  the 
race  we  share,  to  cast  me  off  as  you  did  to-night.  It 
was  not  yourself  that  did  so,  Harrie,  for  you  must 
know  by  now  that  my  heart  is  yours.  Can  I  be 
wanting  you,  Brian's  own  little  daughter  that  bears 
his  name?  Do  you  know  what  himself  has  been  to 
me?  Do  you  know  what  Kathleen  was?  Have 
you  their  whole  story  in  mind,  when  Ireland  held 
us  all  in  the  beautiful  days,  that  you  can  take  a 
steam-tram  to  separate  us,  on  this  of  all  nights  in 
the  year?" 

She  merely  clenched  her  hands  and  bowed  her 
head.  Resources  were  slipping  from  her,  and  she 
would  not  own  it.  She  still  held  herself  motionless, 
for  she  felt  that  a  movement  would  madden  him, 
but  her  eyes,  under  an  anxious  brow,  were  searching 
the  many  moving  lights  of  the  neighboring  Place,  as 
she  hoped  against  hope  to  see  another  tram  arrive. 
But  deep  in  her  heart  she  knew  the  last  was  gone, 
and  she  alone  with  him  in  this  monstrous  capital  of 
Paris. 

"  What  were  you  singing  lately  on  the  bridge?  " 
said  Pat,  ever  lower  and  more  slyly  sweet.  "  '  Che 
faro,'  was  it  not,  in  a  voice  your  father  would  have 
followed.  '  Que  ferai-je  sans  Euridice,'  Harrie  — 
what  will  I  do  without  her,  now  and  along  my  life? 
I  was  thinking  that  already  in  the  play,  when  the 


VERSAILLES 

Orpheus-boy  was  searching,  and  the  pretty  ladies 
passed  him  by.  They  would  have  none  of  him, 
would  they,  not  a  wink  or  a  smile  even,  in  passing, 
for  they  knew  he  was  set  on  one.  Harrie,  there 
have  been  many  girls  I  have  known  up  to  now, 
shadows  of  shades  all  of  them  —  but  henceforward 
there  is  one.  I  tell  you  it,  for  I  know.  When  I  saw 
you  under  the  sun  of  the  gardens,  so  little  and  proud 
and  fair,  my  heart  stood  still  in  my  side.  Would 
you  know  that  moon  in  the  sky  from  the  moon  in 
the  water,  darlin'  ?  That  is  how  it  will  be  with  me, 
the  one  real  thing  where  few  things  in  the  world 
are  real.  Do  not  say  I  am  protesting.  The  blood  in 
my  veins  may  be  against  me,  but  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  so.  I'll  live  loving  you,  and  it  will  be  loving  you 
I'll  die." 

Still  Harriet  stood  near  him,  thinking  hard.  Was 
she  frightened?  She  hardly  knew,  her  excitement 
was  such  pain.  In  the  loneliness  of  her  life,  it  was 
sweet  unspeakably  to  be  "  two  "  at  last,  and  she  felt 
springing  in  her  at  each  of  his  low  words  the  Celtic 
kinship  of  soul,  the  network  of  ancient  sympathy 
that  drew  them  close  together.  How  could  she  fear 
a  tongue  like  that,  that  brought  the  best  things  of 
her  past  so  near?  She  had  more  fear  of  herself, 
indeed,  for  a  rebel-leap  of  her  blood  betrayed  her, 
with  his  soft  speech,  and  the  river-murmur,  and  the 
witchery  of  the  night.  She  might  scoff  as  recently, 


122  HERSELF 

and  shield  herself  with  the  grim  realities  of  Paris, 
but  Paris  of  all  towns  casts  away  after  sunset  all 
that  makes  for  reason  or  for  right.  She  watches 
lovers  above  all  with  an  easy  sympathy,  a  smile  of 
endless  tolerance,  as  though  to  assure  that  the  lover's 
toll  is  lighter  there  than  in  any  other  city  they  could 
choose.  Harriet  was  a  child,  but  a  child  of  im- 
pression and  impulse,  and  owing  to  her  father's  fail- 
ings, she  had  begun  to  live  very  early.  Her  breath 
she  felt  coming  in  long  gasps,  the  river-song  entan- 
gling her  —  she  knew  she  had  to  guard  herself,  and 
soon. 

"  Patrick,"  she  said  quietly,  not  to  clash  with  his 
mood.  "  We  have  had  a  lovely  day,  a  day  to 
remember,  you  and  me.  You  would  not  spoil  it  for 
me  now."  Her  tired  little  tone  had  a  tremble  that 
was  almost  babyish,  but  its  stillness  served.  "  You 
would  not  hurt  me  really,"  she  said,  "  would  you  — 
Kathleen's  son." 

"Me"?  If  I  hurt  a  hair  of  you,  I  would  throw 
myself  under  that  bridge,  as  I  have  done  once  before. 
The  Seine-girls  should  have  me  for  supper,"  he 
cried,  "  and  welcome  to  the  feast." 

"  I  thought  you  would  not,"  said  Harrie.  "  Then 
you  will  walk  with  me  now  to  that  omnibus-house, 
and  you  will  ask  the  man  if  indeed  it  was  the  last 
tram,  and  there's  no  way  left  of  getting  to 
Versailles." 


VERSAILLES  123 

"  I  will,"  said  Patrick,  moved  by  her  tone,  "  if 
you  will  say  you  do  not  hate  me  first." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  do  not,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
only  one  of  them."  Her  quaint  eyebrows  lifted,  and 
she  turned  up  to  him  a  straight  glance.  It  was 
dangerous,  for  Orpheus  himself  could  not  have  been 
more  charming  in  the  moonlight  than  was  Kath- 
leen's scapegrace  son. 

"  Do  you  ask  me  to  care  for  you,"  Miss  Clench 
enquired,  "  in  that  same  way,  after  a  day's  ac- 
quaintance4? " 

"I'd  ask  it  always,  but  I'd  never  expect."  The 
boy's  tone  grew  keenly  sadder,  as  he  leant  upon  the 
bridge.  "It's  the  great  good  thing  I  am  seeking  in 
your  love,  the  thing  of  which  my  mother  warned  me. 
I  must  find  the  horse  to  ride,  mavourneen :  but  when 
I  get  him,  there'll  be  room  for  two.  You  little 
strange  fairy,"  he  said,  holding  her  at  arms'  length 
with  gentle  fingers.  "I'd  never  ask  you  to  come  to 
me,  except  in  your  own  way.  I  have  only  held  you 
here  awhile,  while  the  time  was  true  for  it,  to  tell 
you  what  I  must  tell,  the  thing  that  was  aching  in 
me.  Now  you  will  not  go  far  from  me,  Harrie :  you 
will  not  do  that?  " 

"  Not  for  long,"  she  said,  with  wonderful  steadi- 
ness, for  her  thoughts  were  whirling  again,  and  she 
was  near  to  tears.  He  had  no  purpose  to  harm  her, 
no  cunning  to  deceive,  his  very  caresses  carried  no 


HERSELF 

menace  that  she  need  fear.  Some  absurd,  ancient 
strand  of  honor,  the  thin  vein  of  silver  in  a  royal 
race,  made  the  woman  and  the  kinswoman  she  was 
—  she  a  schoolgirl  of  seventeen  —  all  to  him,  put 
her  little  foot  upon  his  neck.  He  was  nothing  but 
a  dog,  most  soft  of  heart,  most  passionate  for  service, 
most  utterly  reasonless  in  the  manner  and  time  he 
chose  to  show  it.  And  —  like  a  dog  —  one  could 
not  be  angry  with  him.  So  Harrie  felt,  while  she 
was  half-crying  with  mingled  remorse,  irritation,  and 
anxiety. 

She  thought,  indeed,  there  was  no  more  than  this 
in  her  feelings;  only  as  she  moved  and  he  followed 
her,  she  held  a  hand  clutched  to  her  side.  She  knew 
not  what  it  was,  but  something  had  shifted  there, 
and  it  was  not  pity  or  anger  only  that  she  felt.  The 
stronghold  of  her  youth  was  shaken,  by  this,  her 
first  passionate  declaration  of  love.  Her  blood  was 
coursing  differently,  she  felt  a  shyness  of  herself. 
The  daylight  would  doubtless  set  things  right,  solve 
the  vast  impending  problem  that  was  shadowing 
her,  curb  the  new  tide  of  troubling  life,  and  make 
Clench's  daughter  "  practical  "  again.  It  was  to  be 
expected  —  it  was  to  be  hoped,  indeed  —  that  day- 
light would. 

"What  will  you  do*?"  said  Patrick  easily,  when 
they  had  ascertained  beyond  further  question  that 
all  trams  and  trains  were  gone.  "  Will  I  take  a  little 


VERSAILLES  125 

carriage  at  the  corner  there,  and  drive  you  out 
in  it?" 

"You  will  not,"  said  Harrie,  "with  my  purse 
empty  and  yours.  Do  you  consider  at  all  what  it 
would  cost,  at  this  hour  of  the  morning,  to  drive  to 
Versailles?" 

"  I  am  considering  it,"  he  said,  catching  remorse 
from  her  troubled  tone.  "  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of, 
darling,  that  it  should  cost  you  anything,  now  or 
ever,  to  be  good  to  me."  He  looked  at  the  water. 
"  The  thing  to  be  done  is  always  there,  if  one  can 
"catch  hold  of  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  done  so,"  said  Harriet. 

"  And  so  have  I,"  returned  her  cavalier.  "  It  is 
the  same  idea  we  have,  at  the  same  moment  entirely. 
We  go  together  to  my  lodging,  to  the  Englishman 
Horn.  He  will  not  be  gone  to  bed,  I  am  sure,  for  his 
habit  is And  why  are  you  laughing?  " 

She  had  only  laughed  a  single  thrill,  and  her  head 
sank  into  the  little  comforter  she  threw  round  her 
chin. 

"  They're  mad,"  she  murmured  into  it,  "  the  dear 
things,  completely  mad.  Mr.  Horn,  indeed,  of  all 
names  to  pick  out  in  this  life  or  the  next.  .  .  . 
Patrick,  you'll  obey  me  now,  for  I  need  it."  Clear- 
ing a  little  sob  of  laughter  from  her  throat  she  spoke 
steadily.  "  I  am  tired  of  the  day,  and  shall  not  be 
sensible  long." 


126  HERSELF 

"  I  am  yours,  darling,"  said  Patrick,  puzzled  and 
troubled  more  and  more. 

"  Do  you  know  a  hotel,  then,  not  on  this  side 
but  the  other,  that  is  cheap  and  quiet  for  a  girl 
alone?" 

"  A  hotel?  " 

"  Yes.  You  must  think  for  me,  and  quickly.  I 
have  not  been  much  in  the  town." 

He  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  know  one,  Pat?  "  she  pleaded,  after 
waiting.  "Are  you  thinking  really?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  murmured,  "  but  it's  Horn 
would  remember  the  names." 

"  I  will  not  go  to  Mr.  Horn,"  said  Harrie  sharply. 
"  I  will  not  see  his  face." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Pat,  "  he  is  not  what  you  think." 
Her  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  her  troubled  brow 
was  raised  to  him.  "  Harrie,"  he  said,  "  I  will  find 
the  one  I  know,  though  the  name's  gone  from  me. 
It  will  not  be  hard  to  find,  over  there  in  the  little 
streets." 

"  It  is  not  far  to  walk?  "  she  said  faintly,  clasping 
to  her  side  the  slight  store  in  her  bag. 

"  Not  far,  no.  I  have  thought  of  that.  I  have 
thought,"  he  assured  her  eagerly,  "  of  all  the  things. 
Are  you  not  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world  to 
me,  that  I  should  let  you  set  your  foot  in  a  wrong 
place?  " 


VERSAILLES  127 

It  was  reassuring  —  so  far  as  it  went.  She  was 
really  too  tired  to  debate  it,  and  had  to  trust  him 
throughout,  since  she  had  trusted  him  already  so  far. 

They  went  together,  and  in  silence,  across  the 
swirling,  muttering  river  that  is  the  heart  of  Paris. 
Harrie  might  have  thought  —  had  not  all  imagina- 
tion been  drowned  in  weariness  —  that  the  Seine 
was  disappointed. 


IX 


"AND  what  do  you  wish,  Miss  Clench,"  said 
Madame  Barriere,  in  a  manner  of  pathos  that  was 
rather  over-acted,  "  that  I  should  think  of  this?  " 

Madame  Barriere  was  never  a  beautiful  object  in 
her  morning  deshabille,  still  less  when  she  had  come 
home  late,  and  enjoyed  herself  a  little  too  much  the 
night  before.  Added  to  this,  Fraiilein  Lindt  had 
kept  her  waiting  at  the  station,  and  they  had  nearly 
missed  the  train.  Madame's  nerves,  always  deli- 
cately susceptible,  had  been  absolutely  rasped  by 
Fraiilein  Lindt' s  calm  behavior  —  she  a  subordinate 
already  dismissed,  to  whom  Madame  had  offered  the 
priceless  advantage  of  her  countenance  for  the  jour- 
ney home  from  Montparnasse,  at  an  hour  when 
respectable  governesses  should  have  been  in  bed. 
She  had  talked  at  length  to  Fraiilein  Lindt  on  the 
homeward  way,  and,  as  Harrie  had  too  soon  to  dis- 
cover, Fraiilein  Lindt  had  talked  as  well. 

"  I  missed  the  train,"  the  girl  said,  with  rather  a 
sleep-walking  utterance.  "  And  the  tramway." 

"  And  how,"  said  Madame,  "  did  you  succeed  in 


VERSAILLES  129 

doing  that,  when  you  left  the  theater  a  full  half-hour 
previous  to  Fraiilein  Lindt?  " 

"  I  had  to  decide  which  to  make  for,"  said  Harrie, 
"  and  I  decided  on  the  tram.  I  missed  it,  that 
is  all." 

"Ha,  but  is  that  all?"  said  Madame,  with  un- 
pleasant humor.  "  It  is  possible  you  had  not  heard 
that  I  was  traveling  by  the  midnight  train?  Thus 
I  could  have  convoyed  you  respectably,  had  you 
cared  for  it." 

"  I  had  heard  it  mentioned,"  the  girl  said,  frown- 
ing slightly.  She  felt  tired  and  stupefied  a  little, 
after  her  adventure  of  the  night,  and  an  early  ride  to 
Versailles.  She  had  not  even  breakfasted,  preferring 
to  come  direct  to  Madame.  Also,  the  armor  her 
short  experience  had  prepared  against  attack  seemed 
now  singularly  insufficient  and  thin.  She  had  not 
expected  this  dry  aspect  in  the  schoolmistress,  as 
though  Madame  was  moving  politely  through  forms, 
over  a  tacit  understanding  with  an  experienced 
sinner.  It  froze  her  with  nervousness  of  she  knew 
not  what  to  come. 

"  Where  did  you  pass  the  night?  "  said  Madame, 
lightly  as  it  were,  her  steely  eyes  roaming  about  the 
room. 

"In  a  hotel  in  the  Rue  Racine.  Here,"  said 
Harrie,  tossing  it  down,  "  is  its  card."  Madame  did 
not  even  deign  to  examine  this  poor  device. 


130  HERSELF 

"  With  whom,"  she  pursued,  "  did  you  pass  the 
day?  " 

"  I  think  you  know,"  said  the  girl,  rousing  a  little. 
"  It  is  a  pity  to  ask  me  what  you  know  already." 

"  Answer  me,"  said  Madame,  folding  her  hands. 

"  I  was  with  my  cousin.    We  had  arranged  it." 

"  Your  cousin  lives  —  where  ?  " 

Harriet  told  her.  "  He  is  studying  sculpture," 
she  added. 

"  Sculpture,"  said  Madame.  "  You  had  arranged 
it  — when?" 

"  When  I  saw  him  here  on  Sunday." 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame.  "  The  gentleman  is  an 
agreeable  personage,  I  hear." 

"  I  am  glad  Fraiilein  Lindt  found  him  agreeable," 
said  Harrie. 

"  That  will  not  serve  you,"  said  Madame  sud- 
denly. "  You  think  to  persuade  me  you  were  three, 
unaware  that  I  know  all  the  truth." 

Harriet  had  never  hoped  that  Bertha,  that  truth- 
ful flounderer,  would  not  tell  all  the  truth  when 
pressed  by  a  cunning  tongue.  She  knew  enough  of 
both  women  for  that,  though  she  did  not  tell 
Madame  so. 

"  We  were  not  three,  indeed,"  she  murmured. 
"  It's  pairs  that  have  done  the  harm." 

"  What's  that  you're  saying?  "  said  Madame,  who 
heard.  She  gathered  her  forces,  and  flicked  the  lace 


VERSAILLES  131 

trimmings  of  her  morning-gown.  The  bracelets  she 
liked  to  carry  on  her  stout  arm  continually  caught 
in  a  ragged  portion  of  the  lace.  This  impeded 
gesture,  and  Madame  liked  her  gesture  to  be  free. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  she  said,  with  authority,  and 
her  most  studied  air.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  hard  on 
you.  But  you  are  my  daughter's  age,  and  I  judge 
instinctively  as  I  should  judge  her  in  a  like  case; 
in  a  like  case,"  repeated  Madame,  "  if  a  like  case 
were  possible.  You  have  preserved  a  good  character 
till  now;  you  have  lived  down,  in  a  manner  I  can 
approve,  a  certain  reputation." 

"  What  reputation4?  "  said  Harrie. 

"  Not  entirely  of  your  fault  or  of  your  making," 
the  preceptress  pursued,  "  though  you  have  defied 
me  at  times  as  you  know." 

So  Brian  was  to  be  in  it  too  —  not  only  Bertha 
and  Pat.  For  the  first  time  the  girl's  pale  cheeks 
glowed,  for  she  was  too  quick  not  to  guess  the 
insinuation.  That  cheerful  hour  Brian  had  spent, 
so  greatly  to  his  own  contentment,  so  little  to  the 
benefit  of  Madame's  dignity  or  self-esteem  —  it  was 
set  down  in  the  bill,  as  it  were,  with  many  other 
unpaid  items;  and  no  item  was  to  be  overlooked. 

"  You  have  been,"  said  Madame  slowly,  "  we  will 
say,  imprudent.  We  will  say  you  have  been  igno- 
rant, in  meeting  this  person  unknown  to  me,  both 
in  Paris  and  here." 


132  HERSELF 

"  I  was  imprudent  not  to  tell  you,"  said  Harrie, 
thinking  of  Gene  vie  ve,  "I  confess  it."  Madame 
stared  at  her  a  minute. 

"  That,"  she  said,  "  is  not  what  I  mean.  In  what 
concerns  myself,  I  ask  nothing.  Even  had  I  dreamed 
of  asking  to  direct  one  of  your  crazy  nation,  since  I 
paid  you  a  salary  for  the  direction  of  others,  you 
have  strictly  been  out  of  my  charge.  At  most,"  said 
Madame,  with  the  pathos  again,  "  I  could  pray  you, 
I  could  entreat  you  as  a  directress  of  youth,  not  to 
suggest  ideas  to  the  innocent  girls  among  whom  I 
have  encouraged  you  to  live." 

Genevieve  again,  obviously:  she  was  the  innocent 
girl.  Harrie,  gazing  out  of  the  window,  felt  her  lips 
twitch  at  the  idea  of  her  suggesting  anything  to 
Genevieve. 

"As  to  your  story  of  the  hotel  and  the  missing  of 
the  train,  you  offer  it  to  me,  Mademoiselle,  and  so 
I  must  take  your  word.  The  explanation  "  —  she 
gazed  stonily  at  the  hotel  card  —  "  is  quite  complete. 
But  is  my  disappointment  in  you  less  for  that?  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  not,"  Harriet  longed  ^o  say,  in 
sheer  sympathy.  It  was  so  necessary,  clearly,  to  be 
disappointed  in  her,  since  Madame  abandoned  the 
other  charge;  particularly  as  she  had  made  clear 
before  she  abandoned  it,  that  she  gave  full  credit  to 
every  word  of  it,  both  implied  and  suppressed. 

"  I  requested  you,"  said  Madame,  with  a  nice  air 


VERSAILLES  133 

of  coming  to  business  after  a  harmless  diversion,  "  to 
take  charge  of  things  here  since  we  were  out.  That 
you  disregarded  —  or  forgot.  Are  we  to  say  forgot? 
I  know  you  are  absentminded." 

Harrie  had  forgotten  one  commission  among  a 
mass  of  little  errands  given  her,  the  previous 
Monday  in  the  town.  As  the  commission  was  for 
Madame's  hairdresser,  and  happened  to  be  urgent 
and  delicate,  it  had  not  been  forgiven  her,  and  was 
clearly  to  be  added  to  the  list. 

"  I  did  not  forget,"  said  Harrie.  "  I  was  tempted 
by  an  entertainment  offered  me,  and  I  knew 
Genevieve  was  here." 

"  Genevieve?  "  cried  Madame,  shocked.  "  I  ask 
you,  do  I  ever  leave  her  in  charge?  " 

To  do  Madame  justice  as  a  mother  and  guardian, 
she  never  did.  "  Genevieve  can  do  nothing  with  the 
children,  as  of  course  you  know.  They  would  not  go 
to  bed,  and  made  her  cry  with  their  '  sottises,'  and 
she  has  a  headache,  poor  child,  this  morning.  As  for 
Leontine  and  Pierrette  and  the  little  Gogoffs,  they 
were  not  asleep  when  I  came  in  at  half-past  twelve; 
I  was  stunned  to  find  them  dancing;  and  as  your 
room  between  was  found  to  be  unoccupied  "  —  an 
awful  pause  —  "I  was  driven  myself  to  inhabit  it 
all  night." 

Harrie's  heart  sank  only  a  little  lower  at  this 
information.  She  had  reason  to  be  thankful  that 


134  HERSELF 

Brian's  letters  were  safely  locked  in  her  trunk  — 
Brian  who  had  enquired  regularly  after  the  health 
of  "  the  Barriere."  She  had  no  doubt  that  Madame 
had  enjoyed  herself  over  her  bottles,  books,  and  toilet 
equipment,  or  that  she  had  ferreted  out  her  savings- 
bank  book,  and  constructed  discreditable  theories  on 
her  little  balance. 

"  A  letter,"  said  Madame,  pressing  the  forefingers 
of  her  fat  hands  together,  "  has  arrived  last  night 
for  you  from  Madeleine  de  Bois-Severac,  and 
awaits  you  in  your  room.  Its  contents  I  can  divine. 
It  is  no  doubt  to  inform  you  that  you  have 
succeeded." 

"  Succeeded?  " 

The  girl's  brows  knit,  as  she  stood  there  pull- 
ing at  her  glove.  Madeleine,  the  last  of  her 
collectable  group,  was  she  also  arising  in  the  hostile 
ranks  to  ban  her? 

"  This  morning,"  said  Madame,  "  I  have  a  letter 
from  Madame  de  Severac,  which  informs  me  that 
Madeleine  is  to  go  at  once  —  at  once  —  to  school  in 
England  "  —  Madame  bent  to  a  small  sheet  of  paper 
on  the  table  and  read  aloud  —  "  '  swayed  somewhat 
also  in  the  matter,  dear  Madame,  by  your  known 
opinion,  and  that  of  the  amiable  Miss  who  has  lately 
taught  her.'  " 

"  It  was  when  she  was  unhappy  about  her 
examination,"  said  Harriet,  with  an  effort.  "  Her 


VERSAILLES  135 

accent  is  very  bad.  I  did  say  once,  what  is  true,  that 
she  would  pick  it  up  quicker  in  England." 

"And  you  our  English  teacher,"  said  Madame, 
sharp  and  dry.  She  dropped  the  forefingers  of  her 
joined  hands,  and  united,  all  unconscious,  the  next 
pair.  "  I  interviewed  the  successor  of  Fraiilein 
Lindt  in  Paris  yesterday.  You  are  probably  aware 
that  Fraiilein  Lindt  is  leaving  us  to-morrow*?" 

"  I  know  it."    The  girl's  voice  thrilled. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Genevieve  has  told  me  that  you  dis- 
approve. It  was  possibly  you  that  prompted 
Fraiilein  to  claim  her  salary?  The  proceeding  was 
ill-advised."  As  though  doubtful  whether  or  no  to 
put  up  another  finger,  she  played  a  silent  tune  on 
the  remaining  three;  when  she  stopped,  the  ring- 
fingers  were  stationary,  tip  to  tip.  "  As  I  was  say- 
ing, Fraiilein  Lindt' s  successor  —  who  is  a  German 
from  Germany  —  has  passed  some  three  years  in 
your  country,  Mademoiselle,  and  has  the  language, 
in  consequence,  like  a  native.  It  has  been  a  little 
—  a  leetle  prejudicial  to  own,  as  I  must  ever  in 
frankness  do,  that  our  resident  maitresse,  though  of 
English  blood,  was  born  in  America." 

"  I'd  not  ask  you  to  insist  upon  the  English 
blood,"  said  the  daughter  of  Clench,  in  her  dry, 
dainty  tone. 

"  How?  "  ejaculated  Madame:  and  then  held  up 
a  fat  hand.  "  No,  do  not  tell  me;  I  do  not  want  to 


136  HERSELF 

know.  You  are  excited,  Miss,  and  we  know  in  this 
mood  you  say  '  sottises  '  before  you  are  aware." 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,"  said  Harrie,  tilting  back  her 
white-winged  head;  for  the  hat  still  crowned  her, 
and,  with  the  rings  of  hair  beneath  it,  had  been 
annoying  Madame  at  intervals.  The  girl's  whole 
light  presence  was  attractive,  terribly  attractive,  in 
the  crisp,  complete  manner  that  the  French  must 
own.  Miss  Clench  was  not  "  seduisante  "  —  the 
thing  Genevieve  strove  wildly  to  be  —  seductive  was 
not  at  all  in  her  genre:  she  was  " provoquante,"  a 
challenge.  Only  the  bold  would  ask  for  a  shot  at 
such  a  mark,  but  they  would  compete  for  it, 
laughing.  Madame  felt  all  this  in  her  experienced 
soul,  and  being  of  her  nation,  appraised  the  object 
before  her  justly  while  she  condemned.  "I  am 
ready,"  said  Harriet,  "  to  go." 

Madame' s  plump  hand  was  lifted  anew,  depre- 
cating such  brusque  methods. 

"  You  had  arranged,  I  think,  to  stay  till  Easter. 
I  am  still  responsible,  and  shall  not  act  hastily. 
I  was  engaged  yesterday  on  a  letter  to  that  Mrs. 
Champion  —  Champion,  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  written  so,"  said  Harrie. 

"I  never  studied  English,"  returned  Madame, 
who  was  not  a  fool.  "  I  have  been,  this  morning, 
with  some  trouble  —  some  delicacy  —  rearranging 
my  phrases." 


VERSAILLES  137 

"  Oh,"  said  Harrie,  flushing  high,  "  do  you  not 
think,  Madame,  that  you  could  have  let  them 
stand4?  " 

"  Do  not  mistake  me.  The  first  letter,  in  a  pro- 
fessional life,  has  a  special  value  and  significance,  a 
value  beyond  all  others.  I  am  to  launch  you,  Miss." 
She  gesticulated.  "  I  am  responsible :  and  for  your 
sake  and  this  lady's,  I  must  consider  profoundly  any 
statement  to  which  I  put  my  name." 

"Mrs.  Champion  is  English,"  said  Harrie,  her 
voice  shaking.  "  Might  you  not  let  her  judge*?  " 

"Exactly,  I  shall  let  her  judge.  Truth,"  said 
Madame,  with  real  fervor,  "  is  the  thing  for  which 
I  strive;  and  thus  for  an  hour  past  I  rearrange  the 
phrases  and  strike  out  words."  She  looked  com- 
placently at  her  writing-block,  which  was  covered 
with  fine-pointed  penmanship,  in  the  bluest  of  ink. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"She  will  not  be  home  till  the  spring,"  said 
Harrie. 

"  She  passes  through  Paris  in  April,"  said 
Madame,  in  measured  tones.  "  She  is  disappointed 
to  find  you  a  Catholic.  She  is  sorry  you  do  not  sing." 
She  stopped  to  observe  the  victim.  "To  be  of  that 
faith  in  your  country  is  of  course  unusual,"  she  said. 

"  It  has  been  useful,"  said  Harriet,  "  here." 

"  Useful?  "  queried  Madame,  who  had  employed 
her  constantly  to  take  the  girls  to  church,  especially 


138  HERSELF 

at  the  early  hour.  "  I  have  wondered  sometimes, 
Miss,  if  you  were  serious  about  your  religion."  Her 
eyes  ran  up  the  graceful  figure,  and  rested  on  the  hat. 

"  Would  not  Mrs.  Champion  prefer  me  if  I  were 
not?  "  said  Harrie.  Madame  stared  for  a  minute. 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  seems  a  most  serious  lady," 
she  said,  "  and  devoted  to  her  children.  The  eldest 
son  is  at  Oxford, —  and  would  not,  I  gather,  be  in 
your  charge.  Did  you  speak,  Miss*?" 

"  No,"  said  Harrie  wearily. 

"  The  second  is  also  at  a  public  school  —  near 
Wind  —  sor.  The  three  youngest,  two  girls  and  a 
boy,  are  at  home.  They  would  be  the  affair  of  the 
governess,  you  or  another  as  the  case  may  be." 

"  There  is  another,  then,"  said  Harrie,  dropping 
a  hand  at  last  to  the  back  of  a  chair.  She  had  stood 
very  long  on  her  feet,  and  Madame  had  not  signed 
her  to  be  seated.  "  The  other  is  a  Churchwoman,  I 
suppose,  and  she  sings,  hem?  "  Impatience  over- 
came her  at  the  Barriere  methods. 

"  Without  doubt,"  said  Madame.  It  was  well  for 
the  young  person  before  her  to  think  less  of  herself; 
also,  in  view  of  the  letter  she  had  prepared  for  Mrs. 
Champion,  and  its  possible  result,  this  alternative 
candidate,  whose  existence  had  been  hinted,  would 
shield  her  own  proceeding.  Miss  Clench  had  been 
counting  a  little  too  gaily  on  this  post,  to  which  the 
salary  attached  was  absurd,  twice  as  much  as  any- 


VERSAILLES  139 

one  in  Madame's  household  had  ever  earned. 
"  With  three  young  children,"  said  Madame,  "  she 
is  right  to  be  careful.  I  should  be  careful  myself." 

"  I  am  good  with  children,"  said  Harrie. 

"  I  said  so,  in  my  earlier  letter." 

"  And  the  present  letter " 

"  Contains  information  on  some  further  points  for 
which  she  asked." 

Harriet  advanced  a  step.  "  You  will  show  me  the 
letter,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  an  edge  on  her  sad 
little  tone. 

"  But  certainly  not,"  said  Madame,  folding  it  with 
quivering  hands.  "Be  satisfied  that  I  have  done 
my  best,  for  you  and  for  her." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  a  minute,  and  the  trouble 
and  vagueness  in  her  gray-blue  eyes  would  have 
disturbed  a  better  woman.  Three  years  make  a  vast 
difference  to  the  manner  of  judging  a  growing  girl. 
If  Madame  Barriere  had  known  her  defaulting 
maitresse  to  be  seventeen,  instead  of  twenty  as  she 
reckoned,  the  childishness  of  that  expression  might 
have  moved  her  to  more  mercy.  But  now,  the  quiet- 
ness of  lassitude  seemed  to  her  indifference,  or  that 
insolence  of  the  foreigner,  the  thing  she  could  never 
understand.  Whether  guilty  or  no,  the  girl's  be- 
havior was  outlandish,  and  her  youth  and  charm 
were  unfortunately  against  her. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  repeated  Madame. 


140  HERSELF 

"My  father's  friend,  Mrs.  Escreet,  will  have 
spoken  for  me,"  said  Harrie  to  herself,  her  young 
brows  knit  with  that  old  habit  of  strain  that  was  so 
noticeable. 

Madame  thought,  "  I  wish  you  joy  of  your 
father's  friend  " ;  for  she  was  a  fundamentally  un- 
educated woman,  and  her  thoughts  moved  in  the 
kitchen,  as  it  were,  while  her  voice  spoke  in  the  re- 
ception-rooms. Her  pen,  more  exquisite  still,  wrote 
things  she  could  never  aspire  to  say:  thus  the  nearer 
one  approached  to  Madame,  the  greater  was  the 
disadvantage. 

"  You  are  fatigued  a  trifle,"  said  Madame,  put- 
ting her  various  papers  together  with  growing  con- 
tentment, for  she  was  relieved  that  the  girl  had  not 
obliged  her  to  lose  her  temper.  "  I  advise  you  to 
retire,  and  gather  your  thoughts  a  little.  A  trifle  of 
recollection  is  what  you  need,  after  a  soiree  of 
pleasure.  When  I  hear  from  the  lady  any  definite 
news,  I  will  inform  you  of  it.  En  revanche,  when 
you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  I  will  give  you  an 
opportunity.  One  has  many  opportunities,"  said 
Madame,  patting  the  papers  into  piles,  "  short  of 
Confession,  which  should  be  for  the  graver  sins.  I 
cannot  forget,  you  see,  that  you  were  once  my  pupil. 
Consequently,  should  you  want  advice,  should  you 
have  misgiving,  should  the  confession  you  make  in 
Church  move  you  to  further  confidence  —  I  am 


VERSAILLES  141 

always  there,  awaiting  you.  Remember  that,  my 
child." 

"I  remember  it,"  said  little  Miss  Clench.  "I 
thank  you."  And  she  turned,  dazed,  to  the  stair- 
way. 

The  fact  was,  as  Genevieve  had  already  discov- 
ered, Madame  Barriere  was  madly  curious. 


FRAULEIN  LINDT  sat  at  the  piano,  for  a  parting 
revel.  Her  communing  with  the  keys  was,  to  her 
own  imagination,  strictly  private;  but  the  noise  she 
made  shook  the  house,  at  intervals,  from  top  to 
bottom.  Bertha  had  descended  to  the  schoolroom 
simply  to  collect  her  music,  wrhich  slid  into  the  inter- 
stices of  her  green  tin  trunk;  but  in  turning  over  the 
well-worn  sheets  her  purpose  was  diverted,  and 
instead  of  packing  it,  she  sat  and  played.  After  all, 
were  not  limited  hours  of  practice  over,  perhaps  for- 
ever, and  was  she  not  free  as  air?  It  was  a  great 
thought,  and  inspired  her.  She  played  despair,  and 
she  played  defiance,  and  she  played  derision;  then 
she  played  long-drawn,  languishing  regrets;  then  the 
furniture  ceased  rattling,  and  she  leant  a  powerful 
elbow  on  the  piano,  and  remained  for  five  minutes 
in  black  brooding  and  depression.  Presently  a  left 
hand  crawled  irresponsibly  upon  the  keys,  and  sug- 
gested a  new  motive.  Life  returned  slowly  to  the 
rigid  statue,  the  right  hand  fell  from  her  face,  and 
she  dashed  into  playing  again.  This  sequence  of 


VERSAILLES  143 

events  occurred  frequently,  so  often,  that  the  other 
occupants  of  the  room  had  plentiful  time  for  conver- 
sation in  the  intervals  of  harmony. 

"  Look  at  her,"  giggled  the  small  girls,  who  were 
engaged  in  finishing  their  little  gifts  for  the  New 
Year  over  in  the  corner  of  the  schoolroom  by  the 
window.  Fraiilein  Lindt  was,  to  these  young  ob- 
servers, a  perpetual  harlequinade;  whether  she 
pounded  the  piano  in  a  didactic  passage,  or  caressed 
it  yearningly  with  a  tilted  head,  or  whether  she 
merely  sat  majestic  as  now,  her  broad  back  vibrating 
to  a  succession  of  powerful  chords.  She  was  to 
Leontine  and  Pierrette,  and  the  little  GogofTs,  in- 
expressibly funny.  Yet  nothing,  in  all  her  dramatic 
changes,  equalled  the  recurrent,  pensive  pause  in  its 
humorous  effect. 

"  Look  at  her  now,  do  look,"  Leontine  gasped,  as 
Bertha's  head  subsided. 

"  Fraiilein  Lindt  is  in  love,"  murmured  a  Gogoff 
in  a  lilting  tone  (the  Gogoffs  were  imps). 

"  Fraiilein  Lindt  is  in  love,"  said  the  other  aloud. 
"  Do  you  hear  that,  Mademoiselle*?  " 

"  Chut,  child,"  said  Gene  vie  ve,  who  was  by  way 
of  taking  charge  of  the  group,  and  directing  their 
needles  when  necessary. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  laughing,"  whispered  an  imp. 
"  Say,  Pierrette,  shall  I  go  to  the  piano,  and  ask  her 
who  it  is?" 


144  HERSELF 

"  Thou  wilt  not  dare,"  said  Pierrette,  for  whom 
embroidery  had  temporarily  relaxed  its  charms. 

"  I  dare  and  I  go,"  said  the  Gogoff.  "  Fraiilein 
Bertha,  say  Fraiilein  —  who  is  it  you  are  in  love 
with?" 

Fraiilein  Lindt  turned  her  head,  and  the  tears 
were  in  her  pale  blue  eyes.  She  had  been,  for  five 
minutes,  most  unhappy,  as  her  looks  betrayed;  but 
she  loved  childhood  —  that  is,  in  the  abstract  — 
and  she  smiled  as  well.  "  One  day  thou  wilt  love 
also,  my  little  one,"  she  said,  "  something  larger 
than  thyself." 

"  He's  larger  than  herself,"  confided  the  Gogoff, 
rushing  back,  amid  an  ecstatic  flood  of  giggles. 
But  all  giggling,  not  to  mention  further  pranks,  were 
shortly  drowned,  for  Fraiilein  Lindt,  again  proudly 
playing,  began  to  sing  as  well. 

"  Er,  der  herrlichste  von  Allen,"  she  sang,  in  an 
untrained,  powerful,  not  unpleasing  voice.  The 
child's  question  had  brought  her  thoughts  round  to 
Miss  Clench,  the  angel-natured  girl,  on  whose  cause 
she  had  spent  so  much  misplaced  enthusiasm  in  her 
conversation  with  Madame  Barriere.  Love  was  the 
theme  of  Bertha's  song  and  of  her  thoughts:  it 
thrilled  her  voice  and  illumined  her  ugly  face. 
Love  for  him  —  for  him  —  that  graceful  youth  with 
the  blue  eyes  and  generous  heart,  who  had  shared 
his  pleasure,  and  his  opera-programme,  and  his  in- 


VERSAILLES  145 

most  thoughts  with  her  —  for  half  an  hour. 
"  Holde  Lippen,  klares  Ange,  heller  Sinn  und  fester 
Muth  " :  transparent  of  spirit  and  bright  of  eye,  was 
he  not  all  that  indeed*?  And  faithful  —  faithful  — 
was  he  not?  What  youth  had  ever  crossed  her  gaze 
more  like  the  young  hero  of  Teutonic  legend,  a 
Walther,  a  Siegfried,  a  Parsifal  —  only  not  a  Tris- 
tan, for  such  as  Monsieur  Pat  could  love  but  once. 
She  had  destined  him;  she,  Bertha  Lindt,  and  her 
most  beloved  Miss  was  to  be  happy.  What  matter 
schools,  or  salaries,  or  even  separation*?  Sooner  or 
later,  in  the  last  act  of  all,  he  "  der  herrlichste,"  the 
noblest,  would  step  to  her  side. 

"Tenez,  voila  Miss,"  said  the  wickedest  little 
Gogoff,  whom  Harrie  chid  most  frequently  in  the 
bedroom,  and  who  loved  her  in  consequence.  "  Miss 
—  approach  —  listen :  Fraiilein  Lindt  is  in  love." 

Owing  to  the  noise  of  the  song,  the  little  Gogoff 
spoke  loud.  Her  accent  also  was  sharp  and  clear, 
but  she  would  not  have  been  heard  had  not  Bertha, 
according  to  a  not  infrequent  habit,  broken  off 
suddenly  and  short. 

As  it  was,  the  words  stood  out  on  silence :  Bertha, 
catching  the  girl's  eyes  across  the  room,  blushed 
crimson  all  over  her  face  and  neck  —  and  Harrie 
knew  that  it  was  true.  She  felt  a  little  frightened 
in  the  realization,  a  little  pitiful;  but  she  could 
scarce  spare  pity  for  Bertha  now." 


146  HERSELF 

"That  sachet  will  not  be  finished  for  the  New 
Year,  Sonia,"  she  said  to  the  Gogoff  at  random;  and 
then  turned  to  Genevieve,  while  Bertha  Lindt  began 
to  play  furtively  again. 

"  Genevieve,"  she  said,  "  is  this  true  that  Made- 
leine is  returning?  " 

"  She  returns  to-morrow,5 '  said  Mile.  Barriere, 
looking  her  up  and  down  while  she  spoke,  as  is  the 
manner  of  some  people  to  express  the  critical  atti- 
tude. "  Merely  for  a  few  hours,  of  course,  to  col- 
lect her  things.  Madame  her  Maman  awaits  her 
in  Paris,  where  they  are  to  remain  over  the  fete. 
About  their  subsequent  plans  —  as  to  that,  you 
know  best." 

"  I  know  nothing,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  wish  to  see 
Madeleine,  to  ask  her  a  question,  and  I  have  much 
to  do.  Do  you  know  the  train  by  which  she 
arrives?  " 

"  The  three-twenty,"  said  Genevieve.  "  But  I," 
she  added,  "  am  going  to  meet  her.  Maman  has 
arranged  with  her  mother  that  I  should." 

"Good,"  said  Harriet  absently.  Bertha  was 
playing  divinely,  and  the  music  made  her  feel  that 
somehow  —  somewhere  —  there  must  be  sense  in 
things.  She  wore  a  little  black  apron,  in  the  neat 
French  fashion,  and  she  stood  twisting  her  fingers  in 
it  for  a  moment.  "  Will  you  ask  Madeleine,  Gene- 
vieve, to  come  up  to  my  room  for  an  instant,  when 


VERSAILLES  147 

she  arrives?  There  is  your  English  lesson  at  six:  I 
am  really  afraid  of  missing  her." 

Genevieve  nodded,  still  reviewing  her  with  wide- 
open  eyes  in  her  inexpressibly  insolent  fashion.  Her 
game  of  rivalry  with  Miss  Clench  on  the  subject  of 
Madeleine  de  Severac  was  drawing  to  its  close;  but 
the  last  trick  should  be  hers.  The  charming  spoiled 
girl,  the  reigning  princess  of  the  provincial  school, 
was  to  be  torn  from  the  Barriere  clutches  —  as  they 
suspected  —  by  Harrie' s  fault.  Well,  Harrie  at 
least  should  not  gain  by  the  ruse.  So  thought  Gene- 
vieve, her  ears  distracted  also  by  the  flood  of  music 
pouring  steadily  from  a  further  corner  of  the  room. 

Harrie  stood  a  short  while  longer,  twisting  her 
little  apron  and  gazing  from  the  window  on  the 
court.  The  little  GogofT,  pulling  at  her  wrist,  was 
chattering  to  her,  and  she  answered  absently. 
Bertha  was  playing  "  Rheingold,"  coaxing  a  whole 
orchestra  out  of  the  worn  piano,  and  —  the  poor, 
simple  thing  —  loving  Pat.  Bertha  was  happy  and 
glorious,  though  she  was  to  pass  the  next  night  in  a 
gloomy  little  Paris  hotel,  with  no  prospects  and  a 
green  tin  trunk  for  all  possession  —  and  that  night 
the  eve  of  the  great  fete,  her  own  Sylvesterabend. 
Bertha  had  the  secret,  the  noble  gift  of  joy,  the  tears 
that  are  tears  indeed.  She  loved  without  shame  or 
fear,  she  hated  without  remorse,  she  laughed  as  little 
Sonia  laughed,  and  she  gave  without  stint,  of  neces- 


148  HERSELF 

sity,  throwing  all  she  had  into  those  piano-tones, 
that  others  might  hear  what  she  heard  and  be  con- 
soled. She  was  collectable,  Bertha:  most  collect- 
able. .  .  . 

Personally,  Harriet  was  not  sufficient  unto  her- 
self, much  less  could  she  afford  at  this  moment  to 
fling  encouragement  to  others.  She  wanted  help  — 
not  such  advice  as  Madame  offered,  but  something 
much  more  direct  and  bracing.  She  could  not  re- 
main in  this  place  for  many  days  longer,  it  was  evi- 
dent: the  only  thing  in  all  her  situation  that  was 
clear.  As  for  advisers,  there  was  the  priest,  a  kind 
old  man  but  somewhat  conventional;  there  was 
Madeleine,  capable  enough  and  powerful  to  aid,  if 
she  would  but  bend  her  wilful  thoughts.  There  was 
also  the  headmistress  of  the  great  State  school,  who 
had  been  most  courteous  and  understanding,  on  one 
occasion  when  the  girl  had  been  driven  to  appeal  to 
her.  But  that  lady  was  Madame's  hated  rival;  to 
go  to  her  was  to  burn  her  ships,  to  lose  her  last 
chance  of  credit  with  the  Barrieres;  and  credit,  even 
that  of  the  Barrieres,  might  be  useful  before  long. 

Harriet  turned  and  went  slowly  to  her  room. 
She  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  her  "  buxard,"  and 
having  lifted  her  eyebrows  at  it  for  a  period  began 
to  write. 
"  DEAR  MR.  HORN,"  the  letter  began, 

"  I  have   lost   my  situation,    and  shall   not   re- 


VERSAILLES  149 

main  at  Versailles.  I  told  you  I  had  been  foolish  in 
going  at  all  to  the  music  with  Patrick,  and  that  was 
how  it  proved " 

She  got  so  far,  and  then  stared  at  it  again,  with  a 
hovering  pen.  Pat's  note  was  already  written  — 
most  easy  it  had  been  to  write.  Pat  would  be  vastly 
annoyed  by  it,  doubtless,  but  not  anxious,  and  cer- 
tainly—  knowing  the  family  as  he  did  —  not 
surprised.  He  would  just  wait,  consoling  himself 
with  imagery  and  art,  until  the  next  change  of  Fate's 
kaleidoscope  threw  them  into  each  other's  arms. 

But  Mr.  Horn  was  different.  He  was  one  of  the 
people  like  Harriet's  self,  born  to  responsibility, 
careful  and  concerned.  He  had  taken  her  very  seri- 
ously in  the  theater  that  night,  she  was  sure  of  it. 
He  had  even  called  her  romantic,  which  showed  not 
disdain  exactly,  but  a  slight  sense  of  authority,  or 
tutelage.  It  was  ridiculous,  but  Miss  Clench  had  a 
sense  of  something  owing  to  him,  as  if  he  really  had 
been  her  "  correspondante "  all  these  years.  She 
could  not  go  to  see  him,  if  for  no  other  reason,  be- 
cause Pat  was  in  the  house.  It  was  impossible  to 
imagine  herself  haunting  that  pair  of  men,  fawning 
on  them,  in  her  desolate  condition.  She  had  to  cut 
herself  neatly  off,  to  shroud  herself  sedately :  and  so 
these  letters  must  not  be  sent  off  until  just  before 
she  made  her  move.  In  any  case  they  must  wait,  for 
she  had  to  withdraw  her  bank-balance  before  she 


150  HERSELF 

could  finally  fasten  Patrick's  envelope;  so  Mr. 
Horn's  also  might  just  as  well  be  left  unfinished. 

Then  the  strain  of  her  mind  quite  suddenly 
snapped,  as  between  the  lights  it  had  a  way  of 
doing;  and  she  left  her  planning  and  pondering  al- 
together, and  curling  a  foot  under  her  in  the  chair  - — 
a  childish  habit  —  she  dreamed,  holding  her  shoe. 
Harrie  could  have  arranged  such  a  pretty  world, 
with  all  these  charming  people,  if  things  had  been  a 
little  different  from  what  they  were.  She  was  sure 
Patrick's  Cupid  was  lovely,  for  instance,  though  she 
had  given  herself  no  leisure  to  see  it.  How  amusing 
it  would  be  to  make  a  little  money,  and  under  an 
assumed  name,  to  buy  Cupid  and  keep  him  in  the 
family.  For  he  was  a  Clench  Cupid,  not  a  doubt  of 
that,  and  it  was  a  question  if  any  alien  critic  would 
even  see  the  joke.  Cupid  was  a  great  joke  doubtless, 
under  all  his  beauty,  since  Pat  Morough  had  made 
him. 

There  was  Madeleine  too.  Suppose  Madeleine's 
mother  should  desire  a  girl  to  accompany  her  to 
England,  and  introduce  her  a  little  to  English  ways. 
Harrie  had  done  her  duty  by  Madeleine  strenuously. 
She  had  corrected  the  same  mistake  twenty  times  in 
a  conversation;  and  she  had  read  Brian's  favorite 
Swinburne  and  Morris  to  her,  to  help  her  to  the 
rhythmic  ideal  in  English  verse,  an  ideal  as  to  which 
Madeleine  was  completely  and  pathetically  at  sea. 


VERSAILLES  151 

Madeleine  would  be  an  enchanting  companion  upon 
an  English  tour,  delightful  to  watch  and  to  dispute 
with;  and  her  family  was  unusually  lavish,  and 
prompt  in  payment.  .  .  . 

Then  there  was  Brian,  her  beloved.  Suppose 
there  was  a  letter  from  Brian,  at  this  moment  on  its 
way,  timed  to  fall  upon  the  New  Year,  and  bring 
her  all  her  heart  again,  and  the  promise  of  his  com- 
ing. Even  if  he  had  married  the  New  York  girl  — 
and  Brian's  campaigns  could  never  be  supposed  to 
fail  —  Harrie  could  bear  a  stepmother,  for  the  sake 
of  his  company.  She  just  wanted  him  "  around,"  as 
her  old  companions  used  to  say.  She  wanted  to  see 
his  teasing  smile,  and  feel  his  big  hand.  She  would 
not  be  jealous,  just  because  another  girl  who  was 
married  to  him  liked  it  too.  Oh,  yes,  she  did  want 
Brian  sorely.  .  .  . 

Her  head  was  low  on  her  arms  upon  the  table, 
when  there  was  a  frightened  knock  at  the  door,  and 
little  Sonia  Gogoff  hurried  in  to  say  that  Fraiilein 
Lindt  was  crying  dreadfully  in  the  little  cloakroom, 
and  they  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

Genevieve  received  sufficient  encouragement  from 
Madeleine  at  the  station  to  set  her  up  in  her  own 
esteem,  and  give  impetus  to  her  .projected  confi- 
dences. 

Formalities  had  to  be  got  through  first  —  regrets, 


152  HERSELF 

laments,  excuses :  a  passage  in  which  each  girl  acted 
her  part  perfectly,  and  neither  betrayed  in  eye  or 
voice  that  she  saw  right  through  the  other's  attitude, 
and  was  disguising  her  own.  Genevieve  was  furious 
with  Madeleine  for  throwing  over  the  household  of 
Barriere;  Madeleine  was  radiant  at  quitting  Ver- 
sailles and  her  dear  companions  to  travel  as  a  grown 
young  lady;  but  these  natural  emotions  were  turned 
to  suit  the  occasion,  trimmed  into  neat  phrases,  and 
nicely  adjusted  into  a  short  scene  which  did  credit 
to  both. 

They  took  a  long  way  home,  though  Mile.  Bar- 
riere had  promised  her  Mamma  to  return  direct. 
There  were  urgent  reasons  for  disobeying.  Gene- 
vieve had  a  most  fascinating  store  of  gossip,  and 
Madeleine  had  brought  some  sweets  from  Paris  in 
a  pink  paper  packet.  Further,  it  could  be  argued 
that  the  straight  way  home  was  by  little  streets, 
where  no  girl  so  smart  as  Madeleine  could  walk  in 
safety.  Thus,  since  in  Versailles  all  big  roads  lead 
to  the  castle,  it  was  natural  to  go  up  one  great 
avenue  and  down  another,  with  a  look  into  the 
pleasure-grounds,  and  a  pause  by  Neptune's  basin, 
on  the  way. 

It  was  close  to  the  latter  fountain  that  Mile.  Bar- 
riere's  most  thrilling  confidences  took  place;  and  for 
a  period  the  superior  Madeleine  seemed  really 
impressed. 


VERSAILLES  153 

"And  what  of  him?"  she  demanded.  "Have 
you  seen  him'? " 

"  No  one  has  seen  him,  ma  chere.  But  she  has 
had  him,  heaven  knows  how  long." 

"And  you  mean  she  never  told  a  soul?  It  can- 
not be  as  you  think." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  case,  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 
Gene  vie  ve  shook  her  head.  "  As  for  me,  I  have 
seen  signs  of  it  for  a  long  time  past." 

"Pouf!"  said  Madeleine,  who  in  her  heart  de- 
spised Genevieve.  She  fanned  herself  with  a  large 
fallen  leaf,  looking  extremely  dainty,  disdainful, 
and  abstracted.  Madeleine  possessed  one  of  the 
passive  natures,  which  accept  rather  than  offer  devo- 
tion. As  for  indiscretion,  she  spurred  it  by  the  cool 
front  she  presented. 

"They  have  been  meeting  constantly,"  said 
Genevieve. 

"You  are  lying,  dearest,"  said  Madeleine  after 
consideration  and  more  fanning.  "  She  cannot  have 
done  that,  or  I  must  have  known.  I  have  known  our 
Harriet,  remember,  considerably  well." 

Genevieve  was  aware  of  it,  and  raged. 

"  She  has  even  boasted,  when  the  girls  were  dis- 
cussing theirs,  that  she  had  none  —  no  passion,  I 
mean.  She  talks  of  her  father  like  a  lover,  but  that 
is  all." 

"The    English    are    secretive,"    said    Genevieve 


154  HERSELF 

curtly.  She  thought  Madeleine  an  annoying  cat, 
but  she  took  a  sweet  out  of  her  pink  bag. 

Madeleine  demurred  again.  "  Only  about  their 
digestions,  and  cosmetics,  and  so  forth.  I  know  the 
English  well,  we  have  some  in  my  family.  Besides, 
to  be  secretive  one  must  have  a  secret.  And  for  this 
little  Harriet,  she  is  a  child  in  heart."  Madeleine 
paused  over  a  sweet,  rejected  it,  and  flung  it  into 
the  wide  pond,  across  which  a  pair  of  swans 
skimmed  hastily  to  arrest  the  morsel  before  it  sank. 
Then  she  chose  another,  and  proceeded. 

"  She  pleases  me,  nevertheless.  She  has  '  du 
chic '  more  than  the  others." 

"  The  others  "  included  Mile.  Barriere,  to  whom 
she  spoke;  the  princess  Madeleine  was  really  rather 
cruel. 

"  She  has  written  to  you,  has  she  not? "  said 
Genevieve.  This  told,  for  the  princess's  delicate 
brows  contracted. 

"  She  has,  and  I  answered  by  return.  A  line  or 
two  merely,  for  on  Tuesday  I  was  dancing."  There 
was  a  pause  before  Genevieve  tried  again. 

"  I  left  her  consoling  Fraiilein  Lindt,  who  was 
weeping  into  the  piano." 

"  The  dirty  creature,"  said  Madeleine  smoothly. 
"  Fortunately,  I  shall  not  have  to  play  my  scales 
to-morrow.  I  never  could  bear  to  touch  the  instru- 
ment after  she  had  been  near  it." 


VERSAILLES  155 

"I  think  nothing  of  her  playing,"  insinuated 
Gene  vie  ve.  "  Her  style  is  so  bad,  I  was  saying 
yesterday  to  Maman.  She  has  no  taste." 

The  implied  compliment  failed  on  Mile,  de  Bois- 
Severac,  who  had  taste  not  only  in  music,  but  in 
flattery. 

"  Her  style  and  taste  are  beyond  question,"  she 
said  dryly.  "It  is  only  that  she  looks  like  a  sow 
while  she  is  doing  it." 

Genevieve  sat  silent  sulking,  and  Madeleine's 
little  hand  tapped  the  marble  seat.  She  looked  up 
the  Park  and  down,  as  if  it  all  belonged  to  her. 
She  fanned  herself  as  if  the  leaf  she  held  was  of 
Watteau-painted  silk.  She  threw  a  sweet  to  a  swan 
with  an  air  of  careless  ownership.  The  type  of  her 
face,  more  formed  than  that  of  most  schoolgirls, 
suited  the  surroundings  well  enough.  It  was  the 
drawing-master  who  had  first  discovered  Made- 
leine's likeness  to  Marie  Antoinette.  She  had  the 
high-bridged  nose  and  drooping  eyelids,  the  curl  of 
the  lip,  even  the  spring  of  hair,  which  seemed  only 
waiting  the  moment  to  be  powdered.  To-day  she 
had  her  best  clothes  on  too,  and  the  Paris  coiffeur, 
with  a  feeling  for  style  equal  to  that  of  the  drawing- 
master,  had  arranged  a  little  curl  to  either  side  of 
her  neck.  With  the  long  black  ostrich  feather,  the 
envy  of  all  her  schoolmates,  drooping  over  them, 
she  might  have  stood  to  represent  the  old  regime, 


156  HERSELF 

and  Genevieve  the  baffled  democratic  rage  of  the 
early  eighteenth  century. 

After  a  time  —  "  He  is  handsome,  did  you  say?  " 
she  queried  lightly. 

"  A  dream,"  said  Mile.  Barriere.  "  Like  Captain 
d' Argent,  but  lighter  on  his  feet.  Quite  young, 
dark,  and  with  heavenly  blue  eyes." 

"  You  are  inventing,"  said  Marie  Antoinette, 
with  a  look  of  earnest  interest.  "How  can  you 
know?" 

"  Ah,"  said  Genevieve  with  a  private  nod.  "  He 
is  an  artist,  as  one  would  expect." 

There  was  a  pause,  Madeleine's  eyes  still  droop- 
ing, and  her  head  turned  aside. 

"  I  do  not  follow,  dearest,"  she  said.  "  He  has 
not  been  here?" 

"  No,  indeed.  I  got  it  out  of  her.  She  dribbles 
information,  especially  after  playing,  if  you  get  her 
the  right  way."  Another  pause.  "I  mean  the 
Lindt,  of  course.  Mon  Dieu,  she  is  a  fool." 

"  You  mean  the  creature  saw  him?  "  said  Made- 
leine, gripping  the  seat. 

"  My  dear,  she  was  introduced:  thrown  into  his 
arms,  while  we  were  all  groping !  You  forget,"  said 
Genevieve  carelessly,  "  that  Lindt  is  the  bosom 
friend." 

"  This  really  is  too  much,"  said  Madeleine  to  the 
swans  with  pathos. 


VERSAILLES  157 

"  Did  she  not  mention  him  in  her  letter?  "  said 
Genevieve  innocently  surprised. 

"Not  a  word  —  not  a  word."  Vehement  fan- 
ning proved  a  fine  susceptibility. 

"  If  he  should  arrive  to  visit  her  for  the  fete," 
murmured  Madeleine,  "  I  did  not  promise  Maman 
to  return  to-night." 

"  My  love,"  said  Mile.  Barriere,  leaning  forward 
as  her  courage  rose,  "  if  our  Miss  has  a  rendezvous, 
she  will  not  let  you  know  it.  Did  she  tell  you  of  the 
former  one?  —  ha,  you  see."  Genevieve  did  not 
press  upon  the  fact  that  the  former  interview  had 
occurred  in  Madeleine's  absence. 

Mile,  de  Bois-Severac  rose,  and  took  a  stroll  to 
calm  her  agitation,  as  it  might  be  on  the  stage  — 
and  ignoring  her  companion  on  the  seat  completely. 
Soon  she  returned  with  her  brows  lifted,  and  a  tiny 
handkerchief  crushed  in  her  hand. 

"  Finish  the  sweets,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,"  said 
she.  Plainly  Genevieve  was  not  to  witness  her  emo- 
tion. It  was  trying  to  Mile.  Barriere's  self-esteem 
and  hungry  curiosity;  however,  she  had  made  an  im- 
pression, and  she  could  not  leave  the  sweets  to 
waste.  She  shook  them  carefully  out  and  filled  her 
mouth. 

"  Dispose  of  the  bag,"  said  the  princess  absently. 
"  I  detest  filthy  papers  on  the  walks.  Ah,  dear 
heaven,  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  all  this."  She 


158  HERSELF 

looked  up  the  Trianon  Avenue,  and  over  the  swell- 
ing arch  of  the  winter  trees,  and  round  the  imposing 
marble  pond:  and  really  the  luckless  queen  herself 
could  not  have  looked  otherwise,  when  driven  to 
quit  the  haunts  that  had  been  hers.  Madeleine,  at 
times,  gave  Genevieve  the  same  feeling  of  sulky 
helplessness  that  Bertha  Lindt's  inspired  playing 
had  done  the  day  before.  She  was  terribly  complete, 
as  a  personality. 

On  the  homeward  way,  the  princess  was  absently 
polite,  and  even  more  formal  than  at  starting.  She 
concealed  a  secret  wound  beneath  an  air  of  finest 
breeding.  Neither  this  girl,  nor  any  mortal  that 
looked  upon  her  —  said  Madeleine's  manner  — 
should  know  what  she  was  suffering.  She  had  used 
the  daughter  of  her  late  preceptress  just  to  suck  out 
the  scandal,  and  now  she  let  her  go.  Genevieve,  onv 
reaching  the  house,  had  to  admit  that  she  had 
gained,  by  the  march  so  stolen  upon  the  English- 
woman —  absolutely  nothing. 


XI 


IMMEDIATELY  after  her  musical  revel  —  even  in  the 
act  of  sliding  the  sheets  into  the  green  tin  trunk  — 
Fraiilein  Lindt's  spirits  sank  like  lead.  She  was 
heavily  miserable  all  that  evening,  and  Harrie  could 
do  nothing  with  her.  She  tried  to  comfort  and  en- 
courage, quite  in  vain;  she  appealed  to  her  pride, 
for,  tear-draggled  and  uncombed  as  she  was,  she  was 
the  mockery  of  the  house;  but  Fraiilein  Lindt  had 
no  dignity,  none  at  all;  she  disdained  all  such  false 
supports,  and  with  the  aid  of  several  wet  handker- 
chiefs she  courted  woe.  She  only  showed,  when 
driven  to  extremes  by  her  younger  tormentors,  a 
furious  temper  which  frightened  Harrie,  even  while 
she  strove  to  calm  it.  Finally,  she  sulked,  and 
Harrie  might  have  left  her;  only  she  was  secretly 
afraid,  and  could  not  risk  driving  Bertha  to  a  belief 
that  she  was  abandoned. 

On  the  Friday  afternoon  of  Madeleine's  visit,  she 
took  Fraiilein  Lindt  to  the  station,  certain  that  in 
the  majesty  of  her  grief  the  green  tin  box  would  be 
forgotten.  Bertha  had  everything  at  parting,  she 


160  HERSELF 

ascertained:  her  ticket  and  that  of  the  box,  the  ad- 
dress of  her  hotel,  and  that  of  the  most  promising  of 
the  situations  vacant  which  she  and  Harrie  had 
discovered.  Miss  Clench  tried  to  be  cheerful  and 
bracing,  and  even  said  of  this  post,  with  a  smile,  that 
she  wished  she  had  anything  so  good  in  prospect 
herself.  Then  she  waved  a  little  hand  to  Bertha  in 
the  train,  and  with  the  faintest  shrug  under  her 
scanty  furs,  went  home. 

"  At  last  I  see  you,"  said  Madeleine  drily. 

The  little  princess  was  waiting  in  Harrie' s  room, 
with  nothing  to  look  at  but  a  fat  letter,  addressed 
and  lying  open  on  the  table.  Nothing  would  have 
induced  Madeleine  to  look  at  that  letter,  though  she 
was  absolutely  thrilling  with  curiosity,  and  could 
see  the  name  perfectly  well,  and  though  no  one  else 
on  the  premises  would  have  scrupled,  or  refrained. 
She  merely  speculated  about  it,  with  delicate  raised 
brows,  gathering  her  ermine  collar  more  tightly 
about  her  neck,  for  Harrie's  room  was  cold.  She 
knew  well  on  what  errand  her  former  friend  was 
gone,  for  Genevieve  had  taken  pains  to  inform  her. 
Matters  were  becoming  very  serious  indeed,  and 
Madeleine  began  to  think  that  a  coup  d'etat  was 
necessary. 

Then  Miss  Clench  came  in.  The  two  girls  kissed 
almost  in  silence ;  and  Harrie  put  her  walking  things 
away,  and  patted  her  hair  into  order,  with  adroit 


VERSAILLES  161 

little  movements  that  were  perfectly  mechanical. 
Singularly  from  the  moment  she  appeared,  Made- 
leine's coup  d'etat  seemed  further  off.  Queer  as  the 
Irish  girl  was  to  her  ideas,  her  elegance  was  as  in- 
dubitable as  her  charm.  The  princess,  for  all  her 
languid  aspect,  carried  a  little  inner  standard  of 
things  as  they  should  be,  keen  as  a  stiletto,  against 
the  touch  of  which  few  of  her  acquaintance  could 
stand  without  shrinking.  Harriet,  when  all  criti- 
cism was  done,  was  as  she  should  be  in  these  essen- 
tials of  life,  at  least  in  Madeleine's  opinion. 

So  the  pretty  little  doll  sat  watching,  taking  to 
pieces  every  movement,  every  garment  the  other 
removed,  setting  it  down  against  her  when  she 
noticed  a  frayed  collar,  and  in  her  favor  when  the 
shaft  of  a  winter  sunbeam  crept  in  to  gild  her  hair, 
exercising  in  short  the  whole  armory  of  instinctive 
criticism  which  her  race  have  given  them  at  birth, 
and  which  seldom  rusts  for  lack  of  use.  No  indi- 
vidual in  the  world  equals  the  French  maiden  of 
sixteen  to  twenty  in  this  peculiar  art;  and  few 
maidens  in  France  were  more  fastidious  than 
Madeleine. 

It  was  only  when,  having  finished  all  her  arrange- 
ments, Miss  Clench  sat  down  at  the  table  and  burst 
into  tears,  that  all  Madeleine's  fine  standards  were 
upset  at  a  single  sweep,  and  she  turned  into  an 
ordinary  susceptible,  simple-hearted  schoolgirl. 


162  HERSELF 

"  Dearest,  hush,"  she  said,  getting  her  arms  well 
round  Harrie,  and  crushing  the  long  feather  and 
little  curls  upon  her  shoulder.  "  Do  you  think  I  do 
not  know  what  you  have  suffered,  left  at  the  mercy 
of  these  people^  They  have  worked  you  to  death, 
hem*?  —  when  you  should  have  been  resting.  They 
have  misunderstood  you,  teased  you,  bullied  you  — 
hein?  And  ugly  looks  —  insinuations  —  bah,  but  I 
know  it  myself." 

There  followed  a  pause  of  delicate  ministration, 
with  the  eau-de-Cologne  flask  and  cool  little  fingers ; 
it  was  sweet  to  Harrie  to  be  so  cared  for,  during  the 
first  few  helpless  minutes,  and  to  receive  this  sisterly 
consolation  from  the  idol  of  the  school. 

"Really,  Madeleine,  I  am  all  right,"  she  said, 
when  she  could  speak  steadily.  "  Oh,  dear, 
wouldn't  you  say  I  had  nerves !  " 

"  Of  course  you  have  nerves,"  said  the  princess : 
they  were  excellent  things,  she  implied,  to  have. 

"But  I  can't,"  cried  Harrie.  "I  can't  afford 
them.  Oh  " —  she  wiped  her  eyes  —  "I  suppose 
it's  these  last  days  —  and  then  that  poor  thing  — 
this  afternoon " 

Madeleine's  hand  lifted  pathetically;  it  begged 
to  hear  nothing  of  Fraiilein  Lindt,  whose  case  had 
been  closed  and  finished  in  her  letter ;  the  distasteful 
German  was  shut  off,  by  fortunate  fate,  from  their 
communion. 


VERSAILLES  163 

"Do  you  think  I  believe  that  coarse  girl's 
story?  "  she  said. 

"Gene  vie  ve?  She's  been  discussing  me?  Bon 
Dieu,  she's  a  parrot:  she  only  takes  her  mother's 
opinion."  Harrie  leant  her  head  upon  her  hands, 
and  the  old  line  showed  upon  her  brow.  "  I  did 
stay  out  all  night,  so  I  suppose  they  are  right  to 
suspect  me." 

"  They  have  greasy  minds,"  said  Madeleine,  with 
her  smooth  decision  of  utterance :  and  then  she  shook 
off  the  Barrieres  also.  "  But  say,  cherie,  what  an 
awful  misfortune.  How  could  it  possibly  have 
occurred?  " 

"Well,"  said  Harrie,  with  a  Clench  twinkle, 
"  you  should  just  have  seen  the  trams.  They  ran 
away  like  wild  things,  under  my  eyes.  Out  of  two 
trains  and  a  tram,  Madeleine,  I  could  not  catch  one 
flying." 

Madeleine  remained  earnest,  for  she  had  no 
humor:  and  what  was  rarer,  little  conscious  social 
pretence.  "And  you  were  actually  alone?"  she 
cried.  "  Heavens,  how  alarmed  I  should  have 
been." 

"  I  was  not  alone  the  last  time,  no,"  said  Harrie. 
"  My  cousin  was  with  me.  You  never  mean,  Made- 
leine, Genevieve  has  left  out  that?  " 

The  princess  looked  the  least  trifle  out  of  counte- 
nance. "  But  surely  that  would  make  it  worse,"  she 


164  HERSELF 

murmured.  "Alone  —  with  a  man  —  I  suppose 
Monsieur  your  cousin  is  a  man?  " 

"  He  is,"  said  Harrie,  "  and  it  made  it  worse. 
Luck  was  against  me,  and  has  been  all  the  week." 
They  both  looked  at  Pat's  letter,  and  then  at  one  an- 
other. The  inmost  confidence  of  a  clever  girl  is  not 
so  easily  given,  and  in  her  heart  Madeleine  liked 
Harriet  for  her  reticence.  To  boast  of  a  conquest 
was  vulgar  simply,  and  though  she  was  facile 
enough  in  listening  to  her  friends'  histories,  Made- 
leine was  seldom  guilty  herself  of  flaunting  the  dis- 
coveries she  had  made  on  the  threshold  of  life.  She 
capped  a  tale  of  triumph  languidly,  of  course,  when 
the  mere  exigence  of  the  game  compelled  her  to  com- 
pete. But  she  had  a  pride  which,  in  conjunction 
with  her  prettiness,  made  her  respected:  as  a  girl  is 
respected  who  knows  more  things  than  she  will  say. 

"  See,"  said  Madeleine,  taking  her  decision  and 
sitting  down.  "  I  must  go  back  to  town  to-night, 
for  we  have  a  midnight  party  at  the  Cafe  de  la 
Roche.  My  brother  comes  here  to  fetch  me,  as  I 
have  arranged,  at  eight  o'clock.  To-morrow, 
cherie,  you  must  join  us  for  the  fete,  and  pass  the 
night  at  the  hotel,  if  that  porpoise  below  will  let 
you  stay.  If  not,  I  will  direct  Papa  to  bring  you 
back  and  stop  her  odious  mouth.  It  is  all  of  the 
most  complete  simplicity  —  and  it  would  be  charm- 
ing if  you  would  get  your  cousin  to  join  us." 


VERSAILLES  165 

"Oh,  dear,"  laughed  Harrie,  "and  is  that  all1? 
Here  is  a  new  way  to  manage  the  world." 

She  gazed  at  Madeleine,  though,  and  it  was  then 
her  heart  warmed,  as  ever  to  things  collectable.  Here 
they  were,  in  one  way  or  another,  sweeping  all 
created  things  to  their  uses,  and  following  their 
orbits  with  serenity.  Yet  —  was  it  credible  that 
both  Madeleine  and  Bertha  should  shine  in  the  same 
heaven*? 

"  But  I  am  profoundly  serious."  Madeleine 
raised  her  eyebrows.  "  Papa,  Maman,  Rene,  were 
all  distressed  that  I  had  found  no  companion,  espe- 
cially as  Rene  has  a  friend.  But  there,  the  cousins 
they  proposed  were  too  impossible!  Fat,  quarrel- 
some, jealous  —  mon  Dieu!  You  will  come,  cherie, 
and  wear  that  sweet  blue  dress." 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Harriet  gravely. 

"  But  you  can,  since  it  is  I  that  say  it!  Can  you 
not  trust  me4?  "  said  Madeleine.  "  Do  you  imagine, 
in  making  such  a  proposal,  I  have  not  all  in  view*? 
Now  listen:  it  is  clear  you  cannot  stop  here  till 
Easter,  with  this  crew  of  people  whispering  and 
grimacing.  Grant  me  that  at  least." 

"I  grant  it,"  said  Harrie,  taking  the  fine  little 
hand  held  out  to  her.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  had 
arrived  there  quite  alone.  I  have  been  enquiring 
to-day,  and  I  have  an  address  from  Mile. 
Chavanne." 


166  HERSELF 

"And  who  is  she?"  said  Madeleine,  bearing  in- 
terruption patiently. 

"  The  English  professor  at  the  school  down 
there." 

"You  went  to  the  big  school?  Tiens  —  and 
Madame  had  not  hydrophobia?  " 

"  She  has  not  heard  of  it  yet,  I  hope." 

"  Let  her  hear,  and  snap  your  fingers,"  advised 
Madeleine.  "When  she  has  foamed  a  little,  she 
will  feel  better.  Well,  I  admire  your  spirit,  dearest, 
and  you  have  now  cut  the  ground  under  you  very 
completely,  for  she  will  certainly  hear:  but  that  is 
not  the  point.  To  the  devil  with  addresses  for  the 
moment,  since  I  have  an  idea." 

"  Give  me  all  the  idea  to  hug  it,"  said  Miss 
Clench  warmly,  "  and  then  I  will  go  to  Gene  vie  ve's 
English  lesson." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  how  you  distract  one,"  said  Marie 
Antoinette,  a  hand  to  her  head.  "What  can  a 
lesson  matter,  on  New  Year's  Eve?  " 

"  It  only  matters  forty  sous,"  said  Miss  Clench 
meekly.  "  But  that's  worth  taking." 

"  You  are  driving  me  frantic,"  said  Madeleine. 
"  Mad."  She  rose  and  walked  about  a  little. 
"  Now  listen,  before  my  brain  turns  at  the  idea  of 
forty  sous  mattering  at  all  to  a  person  with  hair  like 
yours."  Miss  Clench  laughed  a  little,  but  Made- 
leine saw  no  joke.  "  Maman,  who  is  desperate  — 


VERSAILLES  167 

simply  desperate  —  at  the  idea  of  my  leaving  her, 
though  I  broke  it  to  her  as  slowly  as  I  could,  has 
been  crying  for  days.  She  has  never  got  used  to  my 
being  at  school,  and  the  idea  of  me  being  as  far  as 
London  prostrates  her.  She  is  alterree,"  said  Made- 
leine, and  put  a  curl  straight.  "It  was  proposed 
first  that  a  daughter  of  the  family  that  receives  me 
should  be  received  chez  nous  in  exchange.  I  wel- 
comed this,  thinking  of  her  solitude  in  the  chateau 
all  the  summer;  but  it  seems,  even  from  the  first 
Maman  has  had  her  doubts.  Now  it  appears,  the 
thought  of  the  English  girl  (whose  portrait  we 
have  received)  oppresses  her  so  terribly  that  she 
would  sooner  pay  my  full  board  in  England  than 
have  her  in  Touraine."  Madeleine  turned  about. 
"  I  wish  you  would  not  look  at  the  time,  dear  Har- 
riet. I  long  for  you  to  grasp  our  situation.  I  fear 
—  I  really  fear  you  are  thinking  of  Genevieve  more 
than  me." 

"  I  could  never  do  that  willingly,"  said  little  Miss 
Clench.  "  I've  ten  minutes  yet  of  strained  atten- 
tion." 

Marie  Antoinette  then  smiled  at  her  and  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  It  is  evident  I  cannot  let  Maman  have  sleepless 
nights,  merely  owing  to  the  portrait  of  a  girl  who 
squints.  It  is  equally  certain  she  must  have  cheerful 
companionship  during  my  sojourn  in  your  country. 


168  HERSELF 

I  have  been,"  said  Madeleine,  a  hand  to  her  brow, 
"  really  exceedingly  perplexed." 

"Do  you  wish  for  a  suggestion?"  said  Harrie. 
She  thought  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  charm- 
ing as  the  little  princess,  inspired  by  her  impulsively 
beneficent  campaign.  Madeleine  would  have  done 
an  ugly  thing  prettily,  but  this  was  a  beautiful 
thing.  It  warmed  Harrie  almost  to  remorse,  for  the 
girl  had  been  by  no  means  always  so  unselfish. 

"  You  must  understand  the  whole  first,"  said 
Madeleine,  raising  a  hand.  "  Papa  is  paying  a  great 
deal  for  my  board  at  this  place,  owing  to  special 
provisions  that  they  both  have  made,  on  heaven 
knows  how  many  postcards.  That,  and  the  jour- 
neys, makes  it  impossible  for  Maman  to  pay  a  com- 
panion for  herself  as  she  would  have  desired." 

"  Darling,  wait  a  minute,"  said  Harrie.  "  Does 
she  desire  a  companion  for  herself  at  all,  Madame 
your  mother?  " 

"She?"  said  Madeleine,  with  a  lift  of  the  ex- 
pressive brows.  "  I  desire  it  for  her;  I  have  pointed 
out  its  advantages;  and  that,  at  home,  is  enough." 

"  The  biggest  obstacle  isn't  there  at  all,  when  the 
view  is  better  without  it."  This  the  collector  by  the 
table  supplied,  and  wisely  not  aloud.  "  Proceed," 
she  murmured,  collapsing.  Madeleine  proceeded, 
to  the  crisis. 

"  The  question  is,"  she  said,  "  if  we  could  find  a 


VERSAILLES  169 

person  unselfish  enough  to  go.  There  is  much  to  do 
there,  for  Maman  is  impassioned  for  Nature,  and 
picks  far  too  many  flowers  to  go  in  the  vases,  and 
leaves  them  about  the  floor.  As  for  Papa,  he  talks 
about  nothing  but  hunting  when  he  is  at  home,  and 
Rene,  of  course,  goes  next  March  for  his  service. 
Most  companions  could  not  bear  it,  at  least  without 
a  salary.  It  is  only  for  my  sake " 

"  The  ten  minutes  is  complete,"  said  Harrie, 
"  and  I  think  the  idea  is  finished,  is  it  not?  " 

"  I  cannot  think  of  anything  more  for  the 
moment,"  said  Madeleine,  drawing  daintily  back 
from  her  embrace.  She  was  a  trifle  shy  of  embrac- 
ing, and  had  forgotten  herself  already  quite  enough. 
"  I  will  tell  you  if  I  do,  later  in  the  evening.  There 
is  dearest  Maman  to  be  consulted,  of  course;  but  I 
will  do  that,  over  her  chocolate  in  the  morning." 

"And  you  really  expect  me  to  ask  leave  of  ab- 
sence again  for  to-morrow?" 

"I  expect  it,  yes,"  said  Madeleine.  "What  a 
sympathetic  face  your  father  has,  dear  Harriet:  I 
must  give  you  a  new  frame.  Ah,  ah!  I  have  not 
told  you  about  my  etrennes;  wait,  it  is  too  ex- 
quisite   " 

"  Later  in  the  evening,"  laughed  Harrie.  "  I 
really  cannot  bear  any  more  fairy-tales  now." 

Does  a  fairy-tale,   in  life,  ever  reach  its  end? 


170  HERSELF 

That  is  one  of  the  things  Miss  Clench  pondered,  as 
she  sat  late  that  night  at  her  window,  her  head  upon 
her  hand.  To  be  happy  ever  after  is  obviously  too 
dreary  a  finish  to  a  cheerful  tale;  it  is  so  vague  that 
it  almost  leads  you  to  mistrust  the  whole;  it  is 
better  —  almost  better  —  that  ugly  life  should  el- 
bow in,  interrupt  the  plot,  and  that  those  pretty 
dreams  should  remain  fragments,  never  consum- 
mated. So  it  had  been  with  the  fairy-tale  of  the 
chateau  in  Touraine ;  and  so  simply  —  a  mere  grain 
of  schoolgirl  jealousy  had  done  it  all.  Fate  push- 
ing, Harriet  had  run  up  against  the  blank  wall  in 
Madeleine:  and  now  remained  half-dazed  by  the 
consequent  shock,  the  glittering  sherds  of  half  an 
hour's  fancy  tumbling  round  her. 

It  had  been  too  fair,  of  course,  too  easy,  that 
promise  of  wealth  and  sun  and  sweetness  —  and 
leisure  above  all  —  ahead,  after  this  tangle  of 
anxieties.  She  should  have  suspected  it  at  once,  and 
guarded  herself  against  those  childish  hopes,  and 
this  more  childish  disappointment.  But  she  had  not 
guarded  herself:  Brian's  daughter  so  often  forgot  to 
guard  till  all  precaution  was  too  late. 

Madame  had  heard  of  Harrie's  mission  to  the 
"big  school,"  and  suspected  her  plot  to  quit  her; 
that  was  the  first  thing,  which  might  in  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances have  mattered  little.  In  a  place  of 
tattle  like  Versailles  it  was  bound  to  happen,  as  even 


VERSAILLES  171 

Madeleine  had  forecast.  Then,  on  the  top  of  that, 
and  Madame' s  baleful  looks  over  the  supper-table, 
the  real  bolt  fell,  which  Fate  had  been  preparing. 

Madeleine  was  a  little  vexed  in  spirit  because  her 
brother  Rene  had  not  come,  in  accordance  with  her 
royal  decree,  to  fetch  her  back  to  the  expectant  cap- 
ital. She  had  collected  her  properties,  paid  the 
servants,  given  away  her  school-books,  and  taken  a 
graceful  leave  of  everybody,  and  now  sat  smil- 
ing, though  her  foot  tapped  gently.  She  was  most 
eager,  as  a  fact,  to  leave  these  schoolroom  surround- 
ings, this  too-familiar  atmosphere  of  ink-stains  and 
uniforms,  and  plunge  into  life  and  the  Cafe  de  la 
Roche.  The  hour  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  by 
Madame's  ugly  little  timepiece;  the  minutes  of  the 
Old  Year  were  running  out  fast;  even  Versailles 
was  one  wide  hum  of  busy  gaiety,  and  in  Paris  all 
the  world  was  in  the  streets,  or  swelling  the  festive 
gatherings  in  public  places.  The  little  princess  at 
Madame's  table  expected  and  desired  to  be  with 
them,  and  greet  as  it  should  be  greeted  the  first  New 
Year  of  her  freedom,  that  means  such  worlds  to  a 
young  girl.  She  talked  ever  more  languidly,  and 
her  smile,  though  still  sweet,  grew  absent. 

Then  the  bell  of  the  appartement  rang. 

"It  is  Rene,"  said  Madeleine.  "The  tiresome 
trainard.  Well,  Harriet,  we  shall  expect " 

But  it  was  not  Rene.    It  was  a  messenger :  a  mes- 


172  HERSELF 

senger,  as  it  seemed  by  muttered  report,  for 
Mademoiselle  1'Anglaise. 

Harrie  rose,  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  looks 
all  about  her,  and  went  out  to  the  vestibule.  Fate 
awaited  her  there,  in  the  form  of  an  entirely  strange 
man  with  a  note. 

"  What  is  it4?  "  said  Madame,  hovering  dragon- 
like  in  her  wake.  Madame  did  not  find  it  consistent 
with  her  duty  of  late  to  leave  Miss  Clench  alone. 

"  I  hardly  understand,"  said  Harrie,  frowning 
over  the  note  under  the  gas.  "It  is  Fraiilein  Lindt. 
She  has  been  ill  in  the  train,  this  lady  says.  .  .  . 
Oh,  mon  Dieu!" 

She  turned  white  enough  to  frighten  Madame,  and 
staggered  back  against  the  wall. 

"  What  is  it,  child?  "  Madame  snatched  at  the 
note,  which  was  withheld.  "  Good  gracious,  what 
a  time  you  are!  What  can  it  have  to  do  with 
you4?" 

What,  indeed,  a  great  many  might  have  asked, 
seeing  the  slip  of  a  frightened  girl  on  whom  the 
blow  fell. 

"  She  tried  to  poison  herself,"  Harriet  moaned, 
staring  at  the  written  paper.  "This  lady  was  at 
the  station.  Oh,  poor  thing,  poor  thing."  Feeling 
vaguely  in  the  void,  she  clutched  the  cloaks  hanging 
on  the  wall  to  support  her  shaking  limbs. 

"  Dead?  "  said  Madame  sepulchrally. 


VERSAILLES  175 

"  No  —  oh,  no.  They  carried  her  to  hospital  — 
the  address  is  given;  and  she  has  asked  for  me." 

"  Well,  you  cannot  go,"  said  Madame.  "It  is 
nothing  of  your  business,  or  indeed  of  anyone's  here. 
Thank  God,  we  have  done  with  her."  She  did  not 
speak  loud,  for  the  messenger  still  waited  at  the 
door;  she  had  sidled  on  instinct  into  her  little 
bureau. 

"  Ton  say  it  is  nothing  of  your  business?  "  said 
Harrie,  lifting  her  fair  head.  Her  eyes  shot  sparks, 
for,  with  all  her  trembling,  the  Clenches  were  a 
fighting  race. 

Madame  burst  into  ugly  language  —  the  kitchen 
in  her  had  the  ascendancy.  What  was  it  to  her,  if 
her  dismissed  maitresse  ate  poison,  and  had  an  indi- 
gestion in  a  train"?  She  had  borne  enough  horrors 
from  the  creature,  while  she  was  still  about  and 
under  her  eyes.  Now  she  washed  her  hands  of  her; 
she  might  go  to  the  devil  in  her  own  way,  and  as 
rapidly  as  she  chose;  it  was  evident  she  would  not 
choose  to  waste  time. 

"  I  think  you  hardly  understand,"  said  Harrie. 
"  This  lady  —  a  sister  of  mercy,  I  think  —  is  very 
kind,  and  writes  to  me  herself.  Bertha  Lindt  has 
used  my  name.  She  asks  me  to  go,  either  to-night 
or  to-morrow,  since  she  promised  Bertha." 

"  You  will  go  neither  to-day  nor  to-morrow,"  said 
Madame. 


174  HERSELF 

"  You  cannot  prevent  me,"  said  Harrie  indig- 
nantly. "To-morrow  is  the  holiday." 

"  Holiday  or  none,  you  will  not  go  to  Paris.  I  do 
not  trust  you,"  said  Madame,  "  out  of  my  sight." 

The  Clench  in  Harrie  would  have  made  a  stand 
and  striven  to  go  at  once;  but  owing  to  the  shock 
and  Madame' s  violence,  she  felt  physically  giddy 
and  ill. 

"  Come  with  me,  then,"  she  gasped,  holding  to 
the  coats.  "  You  owe  her  as  much  as  will  take  you 
to  Paris  and  back." 

"  Nor  that  either,"  said  Madame.  "  Come  in  and 
sit  down,  child,  in  the  name  of  reason.  I  have  no 
wish  for  the  whole  place  to  hear,  and  you  will  be 
fainting  next.  I  may  go  on  my  own  account  to 
Paris,  if  I  see  fit.  ...  of  all  moments  in  the 
year  to  be  annoyed,  good  heavens!  Disreputable," 
she  muttered,  turning  her  back.  She  put  a  foot  on 
the  fender  a  moment,  swallowing  as  though  to 
master  her  rage.  Nerves,  she  would  doubtless  have 
named  it;  but  one  had  only  to  glance  at  the  expres- 
sion of  her  rather  protuberant  eyes  in  the  glass  above 
the  hearth,  to  determine  from  what  emotion  she  was 
suffering.  She  was  angry  with  Harrie,  and  furious 
with  Fraulein  Lindt;  but  the  person  she  would  have 
liked  to  tear  limb  from  limb  was  the  charitable 
meddler  who  had  sent  the  message. 

"  She  won't  die  now,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  when 


VERSAILLES  175 

she  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  tumult  of 
her  feelings.  "  Here,  let  me  see  the  letter."  This 
time  she  obtained  it,  and  read  it  through  suspi- 
ciously, as  though  uncertain  still  it  were  not  a  ruse. 
Behind  Bertha  hovered  for  Madame  the  shadow  of 
Pat,  the  dangerous  man  whom  Bertha  had  so  evi- 
dently admired.  She  was  quite  capable  of  imagin- 
ing the  three  were  in  league  to  deceive  and  defraud 
her,  as  Miss  Clench  would  have  perceived,  if  her 
wits  had  been  as  active  as  usual. 

Having  read,  she  went  out  and  said  something  to 
the  messenger.  The  door  slammed. 

11  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  "  The  greedy  faces 
of  schoolgirls  filled  the  doorway,  eager  for  excite- 
ment, peering  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  rebel  Miss 
Clench;  for  most  of  the  household  had  heard  some 
travesty  of  her  adventure.  Madeleine  alone  stayed 
in  the  background,  disgusted  to  be  abandoned  by  her 
family,  and  too  superior  to  betray  curiosity  as  to  the 
bourgeois  Barriere  sensations.  These  occurred  as 
she  knew  periodically,  in  the  kitchen  and  bureau, 
and  she  had  always  coolly  mocked  at  them. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Madame,  returning  and  el- 
bowing through  the  ranks  of  her  inquisitive  pupils. 
"  Miss  Clench,  that  is  all  I  wanted  you  for :  I  hope 
you  are  feeling  better."  Then  nerves  got  the  upper 
hand.  "  Go,  do  you  hear,  for  goodness'  sake,  and 
leave  it  to  me.  The  business  is  unsuitable  for  a  girl 


176  HERSELF 

of  your  age  to  touch  —  it  is  vile  mismanagement 
that  you  know  anything  of  it.  Let  those  who  have 
experience  judge  for  you,  and  in  heaven's  name,  let 
me  have  my  room  to  myself.  Get  away,  Sonia, 
from  under  my  feet;  keep  quiet  out  there,  you  girls, 
and  take  the  little  ones  into  the  schoolroom.  Gene- 
vieve  —  you  may  come  to  me." 


XII 


"  RENE  has  not  come,"  said  Madeleine,  "  and  per- 
haps the  donkey  is  waiting  at  the  station.  He  has 
lost  the  address  —  or  he  may  be  afraid  of  coming  in, 
you  never  know  with  boys.  In  any  case,  I  can  wait 
no  longer.  I  go." 

She  spoke  coldly,  a  little:  for  she  had  sat  below 
for  a  long  half-hour  in  the  dismal  dining-room. 
Genevieve  remained  closeted  with  her  mother  in  the 
office,  and  Harriet,  who  presumably  held  the  threads 
of  these  interesting  secrets,  had  not  called  her  to  her 
room.  This  neglect  failed  to  fall  in  with  Made- 
leine's idea  of  what  was  suitable,  especially  after  her 
agreeable  efforts  in  Miss  Clench's  interest  during  the 
afternoon.  One's  efforts  merit  some  recognition, 
after  all,  however  deserving  the  object  of  them:  and 
now  she  had  to  make  an  excuse  to  intrude,  which 
was  a  thing  she  never  cared  to  do,  and  barely  con- 
sistent with  her  dignity.  She  brought  a  cloak  on 
her  arm,  as  though  merely  slipping  in  to  say  good 
night. 

"You  are  better,  dear,  I  hope,"  she  added:  for 


178  HERSELF 

Harriet  sat  at  her  window  quite  idly,  and  had  barely 
moved  at  her  entrance.  On  the  table  by  her  now 
there  lay  two  letters,  the  former  and  a  new  one, 
recently  opened. 

"  I  have  not  been  ill,"  said  Harriet.  Then,  as  her 
little  friend  approached  doubtfully,  she  made  a 
movement.  Even  her  lips  seemed  stiff,  but  she 
forced  herself  to  speak.  "  I  thought  you  had  gone, 
Madeleine,"  she  said.  "  But  since  you  have  come  to 
me,  you  had  better  hear.  Sit  down  a  minute,  while 
I  get  my  thoughts." 

The  princess  sat,  with  exquisite  condescension. 
Madeleine  was  not  used  to  be  ordered,  nor  ad- 
dressed precisely  in  these  tones. 

"  I  cannot  come  to  you  to-morrow,"  said  Miss 
Clench  quite  bluntly. 

"And  why  not*? "  said  Madeleine,  lifting  her 
brows. 

"  Because  Madame  will  not  let  me,  so  she  says." 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu,"  said  Madeleine.  "  How  badly 
you  must  have  managed,  dear.  You  should  have 
left  it  to  me." 

"  And  if  I  did  go,"  said  the  Irish  girl  unheeding, 
"  it's  not  on  parties  and  presents  I  could  pass  my 
time.  Madeleine  —  listen :  you  were  beautifully 
generous  to  me  this  evening." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  I  was  not,"  said  Madeleine,  tap- 
ping her  foot. 


VERSAILLES  179 

"Will  you,"  said  Harrie,  still  unheeding  as  her 
purpose  warmed,  "  take  up  that  generosity,  as  it 
might  be  a  New  Year's  gift,  and  lay  it  all  down  in 
another  caused  "  Then,  as  the  girl  seemed  puzzled, 
"  Will  you  do  something  for  me?  " 

"  Certainly,  dearest,"  said  Madeleine.  In  the 
pause  she  added,  "  Please  do  not  be  so  nervous, 
Harriet.  You  cannot  think  how  easily  I  catch 
agitation  from  others." 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Harrie.  "  It's  only  my  heart  is 
cut  in  two."  She  reached  a  letter  from  the  table  — 
Madeleine's  pulses  leapt  as  she  did  so.  "  Read 
that,"  she  said,  still  with  the  brusquerie  of  deep 
excitement. 

It  was  doubtless  natural  in  Miss  Clench,  wishing 
to  appeal  to  humanity,  to  offer  a  first-hand  piece 
of  evidence;  but  it  was  rash  in  the  present  instance, 
for  the  letter  was  written  by  one  of  the  persons, 
stranger  to  ornament,  who  take  the  poor  and  suffer- 
ing  as  they  are,  and  do  not  trifle  with  the  language 
that  describes  them.  Among  other  plain  statements 
was  one  Harrie  had  perhaps  forgotten :  { '  The  poor 
creature,  who  is  very  sick,  has  confessed  to  me  her 

intention,  and  mentioned  you  by  name "  There 

were  other  brief  details  of  police  and  what  not  — 
it  was  not  a  drawing-room  tragedy. 

"  Disgusting,"  said  Madeleine,  laying  it  aside  with 
more  fervor  than  her  still  voice  often  had.  She 


180  HERSELF 

rose,  most  bitterly  disturbed,  and  walked  about  as 
though  wishing  to  escape  the  picture. 

"  It  is  more  than  disgusting,"  said  Harrie,  taking 
the  letter  she  threw  down.  "  It  is  cruel." 

"  And  what  hideous  taste,"  the  princess  proceeded, 
"  to  send  such  a  document  to  you.  No  wonder  you 
half  fainted."  She  looked  herself  over  in  the  mirror 
a  moment  and  turned.  "  Harriet  —  excuse  me,  I 
must  go." 

"  And  my  commission?  "  queried  Harrie,  her  chin 
on  a  little  fist,  and  fixing  her  with  earnest  eyes. 
"  Will  you  not  go  to  see  the  poor  thing,  Madeleine4? 
She  only  wants  a  word." 

"  No,"  the  girl  said,  shortly  and  drily. 

"  It's  for  me  I  ask  you  to  do  it.  I  cannot  go  my- 
self if  they  choose  to  make  a  claim  on  me.  Madame 
talks  of  going,  but  she  will  not.  She's  furious  with 
Bertha,  and  will  have  no  mercy  on  her  or  me.  I 
have  written  —  but  what  is  writing?  It's  a  face  she 
knows  that  she  wants,  as  we  all  want  when  we  are 
in  misery  and  shame." 

"  You  seem  to  know  about  it,"  said  Madeleine, 
quite  at  random.  The  lady  of  quality  was  vanish- 
ing rapidly  in  the  schoolgirl,  and  not  a  very  un- 
common type  at  that.  She  was  so  vexed  and 
helpless,  that  she  found  it  hard  not  to  cry:  only  it 
was  not  an  occasion  for  crying,  and  Madeleine 
refused.  She  scratched  instead,  and  spitefully. 


VERSAILLES  181 

"  I  know  what  shame  is,"  said  Harrie,  speaking 
low,  "  though  —  Heaven  shield  me  —  not  for  my- 
self. Madeleine,  it's  an  awful  feeling." 

"  I  shall  not  go,"  said  Madeleine.  "  You  have 
no  right  to  ask  me.  Maman " 

"  Ah,  leave  Maman,"  cried  Harrie.  "'  It's  your- 
self I  am  asking  —  and  have  no  right  to  ask4? " 
Then,  as  the  princess  remained,  her  pretty  profile 
turned  towards  her,  "  Very  well,  has  she  no  right, 
Bertha  Lindt*?  I  have  to  say  it,  Madeleine." 

"  With  the  kind  intention  to  shame  me?  "  Made- 
leine enquired.  "  I  wrote  to  you  about  that,  surely. 
I  thought  we  had  finished  that  discussion." 

"  You  cannot  finish  with  injustice,"  said  Harrie, 
rising  and  thrusting  aside  her  chair.  "  On  my  word, 
I  think  in  this  world  you  never  do." 

"I  am  unjust,  then;  prejudiced.  Well,"  said 
Madeleine  with  a  pretty  shrug,  "  I  must  bear  it." 

"  You  do  more  than  bear  it,"  said  Harrie  swiftly. 
"  You  are  proud  —  proud  of  your  prejudices !  But 
this  is  not  one  to  be  proud  of,  if  it  makes  you  do  an 
unkind  thing." 

"  I  am  not  unkind,"  said  Madeleine,  humping  her 
fur  wrap  crossly  on  her  shoulders.  "  Really,  you 
are  unreasonable,  Harriet.  The  woman's  nothing 
to  me,  and  she's  a  criminal,  nearly.  I  will  send  a 
note  to  her  —  there :  and  Maman  will  send  money, 
I  dare  say." 


182  HERSELF 

"  You  do  not  think  of  her  as  she  is,"  cried  Harrie, 
as  though  in  eager  warning.  "Think,  Madeleine, 
for  surely  you  should  know.  What  do  they  want 
with  money  or  messages?  It  is  friends  she  wants  — 
friends:  it  is  people." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  a  person,"  said  Madeleine,  with 
an  unmirthful  laugh.  "  At  least,  not  the  person  for 
her.  Ah,  juste  ciel!  who  is  that?" 

The  princess's  nerves  had  suffered  too.  Her 
hand  flew  to  her  heart,  and  her  fine  brows  were  bent; 
yet  it  was  only  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Your  brother,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  sulky 
voice  of  one  of  the  disaffected  servants  of  the  house. 

"  Thank  Heaven !  "  said  Madeleine,  very  fer- 
vently. She  gathered  up  her  best  manner  again,  for 
it  had  been  much  disturbed.  "  Rene,"  she  called, 
"  are  you  there?  Come  along,  for  mercy's  sake,  and 
take  this  cloak.  Well,  Harriet,"  she  said  at  the  door, 
for  her  brother  was  without,  and  formalities  must 
be  preserved,  "  I  am  sorry  we  shall  not  see  you 
to-morrow.  It  is  a  pity,  but "  She  shrugged. 

Harrie  did  not  say  she  was  sorry,  Madeleine 
noticed.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking,  as  she  stood 
with  her  hands  behind  her,  under  the  single  glaring 
light  of  the  tiny  room.  She  was  looking,  oddly 
enough,  very  pretty,  with  her  brilliant  eyes,  patheti- 
cally pale  face,  and  gleaming  hair  disordered  over 
a  knitted  brow.  Yet  she  seemed  more  abstracted 


VERSAILLES  183 

than  ill-tempered,  and  she  reached  for  her  blotting- 
case,  and  scribbled  a  line  on  a  sheet  it  contained. 

"  It  would  be  asking  too  much  to  beg  you  to  post 
a  letter  at  Montparnasse,"  she  said,  in  her  accurate 
foreign  French.  "  The  hospital's  in  the  station 
quarter,  and  it  might  reach  quicker,  posted  there." 

"Certainly,"  said  Madeleine  coldly.  "Here, 
Rene." 

"  If  Mademoiselle  prefers,  I  will  leave  the  letter," 
said  the  young  student  without,  who  had  not 
spoken.  "It  is  barely  out  of  our  way,  and  I  can 
put  my  sister  in  a  cab." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Madeleine,  with  a  vexed 
laugh.  Knowing  Rene,  she  perceived  almost  with- 
out looking  that  he  admired  Miss  Clench.  This 
happened,  by  an  odd  chance,  to  be  the  last  straw 
to  her  sadly  tried  nerves.  "  I  am  sick  of  this  place," 
she  said  clearly,  moving  out  of  the  door  with  her 
head  held  high,  "  and  delighted  to  be  going.  I  hope 
I  shall  never  see  any  face  it  holds  again." 

"Bon,"  said  Monsieur  Rene,  and  his  humorous 
eye  met  Harrie's.  He  was  not,  the  look  conveyed, 
of  Madeleine's  opinion;  but  she  had,  as  ever,  to  be 
admired  and  humored  in  all  she  chose  to  do.  He 
wrapped  his  little  sister  up  with  an  air  of  ready 
service  and  protection  that  was  pleasant  and  com- 
forting to  behold,  and  then,  with  a  final  jest,  drew 
her  away  with  him  down  the  passage. 


184  HERSELF 

Harriet,  left  behind  in  a  loneliness  not  much 
differing  from  her  former  abandonment  on  the 
first  day  of  the  holidays,  relieved  herself  as  then: 
she  soliloquized. 

"  You  are  not  one  of  mine,  Madeleine,"  she  said, 
gazing  after  the  charming  little  figure,  and  the  last 
wave  of  the  long  plume.  "  I  was  mistaken  —  I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  have  you.  I  —  I  have  struck  you 
off." 

Then  she  cried  —  for  her  eyes  loved  Madeleine. 

Harriets  little  chamber  was  very  quiet  that  even- 
ing, for  the  children  did  not  come  to  bed,  and  their 
cheerful  chatter  in  the  rooms  adjoining  hers  was 
absent.  The  whole  household  was  staying  up, 
according  to  the  tradition,  to  watch  the  New  Year 
in;  and  unaccustomed  fruits  and  biscuits,  and  some- 
what questionable  champagne,  were  being  circulated 
downstairs  to  celebrate  the  occasion,  and  relieve  the 
tedium  of  waiting  for  the  impatient  children. 
Harrie  herself  did  little  but  sit  motionless  in  the 
solitude  for  which  she  was  thankful,  her  head  upon 
her  hand. 

She  was  only  disturbed  when  there  was  a  tiny 
knock  at  the  door,  and  a  little  Gogoff  slid  in. 

"Yes,  dear?"  said  Miss  Clench  mechanically. 
Sonia,  in  a  cracker-cap,  pulled  on  anyhow,  and  torn 
above  the  ear,  was  more  imp-like  in  appearance  than 


VERSAILLES  185 

ever,  though  her  black  eyes  were  blinking  under  the 
light. 

"  It  is  only  —  I  am  getting  very  sleepy,"  whis- 
pered Sonia,  snuggling  up  to  Miss  Clench's  side. 

"  Go  to  bed  then,  darling,"  said  Harrie,  smiling. 

"But  there  are  still  seventy-six  minutes  on  the 
clock,  Pierrette  says.  It  was  to  wish  you  the 
'  bonne  annee '  —  and  I  wanted  to  be  the  first." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  first,"  said  Harrie,  "  are  you: 
not?  " 

"  It  isn't  come  yet,"  objected  Sonia. 

"  Who  knows  it  mightn't  be  born  bad,"  whispered, 
Harriet,  "  unless  you  wish  it  for  me  now." 

"  I  do  wish  it,"  said  Sonia,  relieved:  "  and  —  and 
that  is  all."  She  got  up  from  the  arm  of  Harrie's 
chair.  "  Will  you  come  and  tell  me  stories,"  she 
insinuated,  "  if  I  lie  upon  my  bed?  Because  I  have 
got  to  keep  awake  for  it,  like  Pierrette  and  the 
others." 

So  Miss  Clench  —  having  taken  the  precaution; 
first  of  undressing  the  little  GogofT  —  told  her 
stories  as  long  as  it  was  necessary.  She  used  the 
beautiful  low  tone  that  she  had  used  to  Bertha, 
which  had  already  often  proved  its  power  with  a 
sick  or  wakeful  child.  As  for  the  matter  of  what 
she  told,  it  dealt  with  unusual  persons  and  most 
improbable  events,  and  was  entirely  wanting  in 
sense  or  order  or  consistency,  or  any  of  the  qualities 


186  HERSELF 

of  a  practical  or  practised  narrator.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  narrator's  mind  was  very  absent  all  the 
time.  When  Sonia  was  quite  asleep  she  kissed  her, 
and  went  back  to  her  room  somewhat  more  satisfied. 
She  felt  curiously,  in  the  vague  state  of  her  sensa- 
tions this  evening,  that  with  Sonia  she  had  finished 
something  at  least  that  needed  to  be  completed. 

Cheered  in  this  unaccountable  way,  she  cleared 
up  various  other  little  bits  of  business,  and  packed 
her  small  box  almost  full.  The  year  was  very  old 
indeed,  tottering  almost,  when  she  turned  to  the  last 
matter  that  needed  completing,  and  finished  the 
letter  to  Mr.  Horn.  Extracting  the  sheet  from  its 
hiding-place,  she  read  it  over  as  far  as  it  had  gone, 
and  proceeded  in  a  hurry. 

"  I  have  lost  my  situation  "  —  was  how  it  finally 
read  —  "  and  shall  not  remain  at  Versailles.  I  told 
you  I  had  been  foolish  in  going  at  all  to  the  music 
with  Patrick,  and  that  was  how  it  proved.  It  was 
not  his  fault  at  all,  and  he  must  not  think  it  (not 
that  he  will).  I  think  I  shall  be  wandering  for  a 
while,  here  or  perhaps  in  England,  but  you  will  not 
trouble  about  me,  for  you  know  I  can  care  for  my- 
self. I  am  explaining  that  all  to  him,  and  also  that 
I  can  be  of  no  service  to  him  for  the  time,  which  is 
why  I  shall  be  quiet.  Perhaps  you  will  say  it's  easy 
to  be  quiet  when  you  are  at  your  wits'  end  with  a 
boy,  as  I  was  with  Pat. 


VERSAILLES  187 

"  I  do  not  believe,  sir,  that  you  will  let  him  go 
far  from  you,  and  I  feel  through  you  that  I  hold 
him  fast.  Is  that  too  much  for  his  cousin  to  expect, 
that  you  will  be  the  peg  to  fasten  him4?  You  are 
always  there,  you  said  to  me  twice  in  the  theater, 
and  we  can  never  keep  a  dwelling,  we  Clenches." 

Here  her  pen  paused,  and  swallowing  down 
something  in  her  throat,  she  continued  even  more 
hastily : 

"  We  are  the  mad  people,  all  of  us ;  so  you  will 
not  be  surprised  if  now  and  then  I  write  you  letters, 
wanting  Brian  —  I  mean  when  I  have  to  send  my 
feelings  far  from  me.  I  have  written  them  before 
now  to  him,  when  he  left  me  no  address,  and  sunk 
them  in  the  castle  ponds.  The  reason  I  choose  you, 
though  a  silly  one  enough,  you  had  better  know. 
There  was  an  article  I  read  long  ago,  when  Brian 
first  left  me.  It  was  in  an  English  magazine,  and  it 
was  called  '  In  Praise  of  Peace.'  The  name  signing 
it  has  come  back  to  me  lately,  and  it  was  yourself. 
I  was  a  little  young  girl  at  the  time :  and  thinking  I 
wanted  the  thing  you  wrote  of,  I  collected  Mr. 
Horn." 


That  was  what  came  to  Geoffry,  on  the  morning 
of  the  New  Year.  Quite  early  on  the  morrow  of  its 
writing,  with  the  not  unwilling  aid  of  a  disaffected 
servant,  Miss  Clench  ran  away  from  Versailles. 


PART  II 
FAROVER 


IT  is  Indian  summer  in  an  English  garden:  in  a 
county  of  roses  too  (one  can  count  the  shires  where 
they  are  natural  to  the  soil),  and  blessed  by  the 
richest  breath  of  early  afternoon.  Winifred  Escreet, 
strolling  through  her  little  domain  at  Farover  with 
the  slow,  untroubled  gait  of  a  queen  in  full  posses- 
sion, could  even  decide  at  leisure  to  forgive  Rosaline 
for  making  her  wait  a  full  half-hour  for  singing. 
Her  thoughts  were  weighty  and  grave  as  she  strolled 
along  the  pergola-path,  alternately  lit  and  shadowed 
as  the  sun  struck  through  the  leaf -clad  bars  above 
her;  yet  not  a  seam  showed  on  the  handsome,  serious 
face  under  the  plenteous  weight  of  dark  hair  touched 
with  gray.  Having  fixed  Rosaline  Maskery's  weekly 
visit  for  three  o'clock,  prepared  the  music  and  or- 
dered two  kinds  of  sandwiches  for  the  tea-tray  at 
four,  she  had  set  aside  the  earlier  hours  for  coming 
to  a  decision:  or  half  a  decision,  for  as  yet  her  hus- 
band had  not  shared  and  sanctified  it.  She  had 
thought  it  out  carefully  before  luncheon,  while  she 
collected  rose-leaves  for  pot-pourri;  and  now,  in  this 


192  HERSELF 

extra  time  on  which  she  had  not  counted  —  for  little 
Rosaline  was  seldom  late- — she  was  tidying  her 
mind  upon  the  point:  cutting  the  frayed  edge  of 
her  purpose  smooth,  as  it  were :  removing  wandering 
little  rags  of  doubt:  preparing,  with  the  easy,  slow 
humor  which  was  her  gift,  the  method  of  its  produc- 
tion and  presentation  to  Gervase,  when  Rosaline 
should  be  gone:  Gervase,  whose  mind  was  as  her 
own,  whose  humor  and  taste  it  was  no  trouble  to 
forecast,  so  trained  they  were  by  old  companionship 
to  meet  and  follow  hers. 

But  for  all  the  conning  of  this  graceful  campaign 
which  occupied  her  more  serious  mind,  Winifred 
was  not  above  the  consciousness  by  the  way  of  a 
sublime  sense  of  suitability;  of  matching  perfectly, 
in  dress  and  demeanor,  the  spirit  of  her  garden  and 
the  glamour  of  the  autumn  sun;  of  "composing 
well,"  as  the  artist  would  say:  for  the  happy  land 
of  the  Escreets  bordered  that  of  art,  and  they  loved, 
in  a  just  measure,  of  course,  to  speak  its  language. 
They  had  made,  like  many  well-matched,  childless 
couples,  by  a  process  of  careful  filching  from  various 
dialects,  a  language  of  their  own.  They  spoke  a 
very  little  German  when  on  the  almost  daily  theme 
of  music;  when  dealing  with  the  drama  they  spoke 
a  very  little  French;  they  skimmed  the  expressive 
slang  of  the  neighboring  university  when  academic 
subjects  were  uppermost;  they  had  evolved  a 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  193 

unique  baby-language  for  the  animals  of  the  house, 
and  (in  the  strictest  privacy)  had  been  known  to 
apply  it  to  one  another.  It  was  all  done  within  the 
limits  of  taste  and  tact,  those  civilized  arts  which 
people  like  the  Escreets  study  for  us,  raising  the 
standard  ever  higher,  that  the  wary  unchosen  may 
not  catch  it,  try  he  never  so  hard.  The  study  needs 
leisure,  and  leisure  the  Escreets  certainly  had; 
though  their  days  were  well  laid-out,  and  they  were 
to  their  own  minds  busy  people.  After  all,  busy- 
ness is  simply  a  state  of  mind,  as  either  of  them 
would  have  been  prepared  to  argue  for  hours.  Mrs. 
Escreet  was  busy  now,  nipping  off  stray  dead  roses 
as  she  trimmed  her  thoughts;  and  she  continued  busy 
up  to  the  very  moment  of  Rosaline's  appearance, 
framed  in  the  pergola  archway. 

Perfect  —  all  but  the  skirt,  this  the  artist  decided 
as  she  turned.  Miss  Maskery,  though  in  bicycling 
attire,  was  a  pretty,  blooming  girl,  and  the  flush 
of  haste  and  a  little  shyness  made  her  all  the 
prettier. 

"  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Escreet,  I  am  sorry,"  said  Rosa- 
line, in  ringing  tones.  That  was  her  one  fault,  she 
spoke  a  little  too  loud.  It  is  a  trait  of  health,  and 
argued  the  good  organ  that  Winifred  knew  she  pos- 
sessed; but  in  private  speech,  as  in  private  singing, 
tone  should  not  be  overdone.  Winifred's  own  voice 
was  quieter  than  usual  in  response,  though  friendly. 


194  HERSELF 

"  My  dear  child  —  and  the  lesson !  It  is  half- 
past  three." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  and  your  time  is  so  precious," 
said  Rosaline,  who  really  thought  so.  "  But  it  is 
like  this,"  she  went  on,  with  a  quick  kiss  to  the  hand 
laid  on  her  shoulder.  "  I  have  been  detained  first  by 
Mr.  Champion,  and  then  by  Auntie." 

"  Ah,"  thought  Winifred,  with  another  little  pat 
to  her  morning's  decision.  "  Which  Mr.  Champion, 
Rosalie*?"  she  asked  aloud. 

"Mr.  Tom."  The  girl  laughed,  very  frankly. 
"  You  see,  I  was  in  Stackfield  Lane,  on  my  bicycle, 
and  stuck  all  over  with  bills." 

"Bills'?" 

"  Ann  said,  since  I  was  coming  out,  I  might  as  well 
do  a  little  '  work '  for  Mr.  Champion.  Ann's  work- 
ing for  the  ward,  you  know.  I  said  I  wouldn't 
canvass,  but  I  did  not  mind  leaflets,  a  few.  Of 
course,  Ann  gave  me  a  stack  of  them,  and  bills  as 
well.  Then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Tom  met  me  by 
the  lodge-gate,  and  saw  his  father's  name  staring 
out,  and  chose  to  be  absurd  and  waste  my  time." 

Thus  Rosaline  explained,  hanging  on  Mrs. 
Escreet's  arm.  Winifred,  never  hasty,  took  time 
to  consider,  as  they  moved  slowly  along  the  path  to 
the  windows  of  the  drawing-room.  Tom  Champion, 
an  eldest  son  and  the  great  match  of  the  district, 
was  her  own  second  cousin;  and  she  had  been  re- 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  195 

sponsible  herself,  in  a  careless  moment,  for  presenting 
him  to  Miss  Maskery,  a  charming  and  clever  girl. 
But  the  presentation  had  been  effected  more  than  a 
year  since  at  a  boatrace  party,  when  Professor  Mask- 
ery was  still  alive,  and  his  daughters  Rosaline  and 
Ann  in  quite  the  forefront  of  Oxford  society.  Always 
poor,  the  Maskery  girls,  never  affluent,  had  been 
left  almost  poor;  and  friends,  notably  their  aunt, 
the  Vicar's  wife  at  Stackfield,  had  been  for  long 
making  efforts  to  help  the  pair.  Assistance  was  not 
hopeless  in  the  case:  for  Ann,  though  plain,  was  a 
purposeful  girl,  only  hampered  by  a  taste  for  taking 
difficult  and  ill-paid  posts,  such  as  that  she  served  at 
present  for  the  women's  political  society;  and  Rosa- 
line was  too  pretty  to  give  her  family  much  concern. 
She  would  marry  one  of  the  many  who  were  known 
to  have  been  hovering  about  her  in  her  father's  life- 
time, and  settle  soon  and  well. 

Still,  the  year  of  mourning  flew  by,  and  Rosaline 
did  not  settle,  either  into  work  or  matrimony;  and 
Mrs.  Grayling,  the  Vicar's  wife,  spoke  of  her  with  a 
wrinkled  brow.  Winifred,  easily  bored  by  Mrs. 
Grayling,  was  bored  about  her  younger  niece:  until 
she  heard  Rosaline  sing  Schubert's  "  Mignon  "  in  a 
black  dress  —  and  then  she  fell  in  love.  She  did 
so  easily  with  any  beautiful  or  pathetic  object. 
The  love  did  not  always  last,  as  her  critical  spirit 
got  to  work;  but  in  this  case  she  preserved  an 


196  HERSELF 

affection  for  the  girl  when  her  first  delight  fell  dead. 
Rosaline  was  bright,  and  cultured,  and  had  a  true 
soprano  voice.  The  great  Mrs.  Escreet  did  not  regret 
her  bold  offer  to  give  her  lessons,  or  the  familiarity 
with  Farover  the  weekly  visit  entailed:  but  she  did 
by  slow  degrees  repent  the  presentation  to  Tom. 

She  tried  a  bold  stroke  now.  "  Did  Tom  pro- 
pose^" she  queried,  smiling. 

"Mrs.  Escreet!     Of  course  not." 

"  He  does  not  uncommonly,  you  know.  He  is 
soft-hearted.  While  he  was  an  undergraduate  at 
the  House  his  mother  was  quite  anxious  about  him. 
That  was  before  you  came  out,  my  dear." 

"  I  never  did  come  out,"  said  Rosaline.  "  You 
never  do  at  Oxford,  at  least  in  families  like  ours. 
Ann  and  I  just  went  to  strings  of  dances,  and  put 
our  hair  up  between  two  of  them.  Oh,  dear,  it  was 
a  lovely  time !  "  She  spoke  gravely,  wistfully,  as  of 
good  things  past.  She  was  pathetic  again,  and  her 
voice  was  prettily  modulated.  Winifred  failed  to 
pat  her  decision,  and  even  had  a  pang  of  regret.  No 
one  could  have  detected  it  though  from  her  serene 
countenance  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room  by 
the  terrace  and  garden-window,  and  stood  smoothing 
her  slightly  ruffled  hair,  and  gazing  about  her  with 
the  same  royal,  contented  air. 

"  The  great  question  is,"  she  said  very  gravely, 
"  whether  we  shall  have  tea  first,  or  music.  If 


FAROVER  197 

Hester  has  cut  the  cream  sandwiches  for  four 
o'clock,  they  will  have  lost  their  first  freshness  by 
five.  Personally,  I  sing  better  after  tea  than 
before " 

"  Tea  first,  then,"  cried  Rosaline,  who  was  both 
hungry,  and  indifferent  to  the  finest  shades  in  the 
art  of  comfort.  "  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Escreet,  how 
delicious !  "  She  fell  upon  the  freshly  gathered  piles 
of  rose-leaves,  laid  out  temporarily  on  a  Chippendale 
table  by  the  window. 

Mrs.  Escreet  looked  at  her  with  the  ghost  of  a 
frown,  and  rang  the  bell.  Now  and  then  —  very 
rarely,  for  she  saw  her  at  most  once  a  week  —  Rosa- 
line's youth  gave  her  a  pang,  one  of  those  pangs  the 
cleverest  woman  of  forty  does  not  seek  to  explain. 
As  it  happened,  few  girls  haunted  her  peaceful, 
beautifully  ordered  home.  When  necessary  only, 
as  when  Tom  Champion  dined,  she  invited  a  young 
cousin  or  friend  for  Gervase  to  play  with :  otherwise 
the  flood  of  youth  which  at  fixed  seasons  invaded  her 
gates  was  either  necessary  relatives,  or  young  men 
who  walked  or  rode  out  from  Oxford  on  a  Sunday, 
for  half  an  hour's  chatter  and  a  cup  of  tea. 

The  decision  sprang  full-bodied  again,  even  as  her 
artistic  eye  approved  Rosaline's  attitude,  the  lines 
of  the  young  body  bent  above  the  fragrant  heap  of 
rose-petals,  which  seemed  only  a  shade  more  delicate 
than  the  cheek  they  pressed.  She  was  a  nice  girl  — 


198  HERSELF 

charming;  but  it  was  better,  really,  and  she  must 
make  Gervase  see  it,  that  she  should  continue  to 
haunt  the  house  as  a  pretty  visitor,  and  at  well- 
spaced  intervals  only.  As  such,  she  was  perfect; 
but  one  should  beware  in  life  and  art  of  overdoing 
a  good  thing. 

At  six,  Gervase  Escreet  came  in  from  an  occa- 
sional visit  to  an  Oxford  library,  and  leaving  his 
soft  hat  in  the  entry,  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair, 
and  emerged  upon  the  lawn.  Sounds  of  music, 
floating  from  the  drawing-room,  informed  him  that 
Winifred's  weekly  lesson  was  still  in  progress. 
Dropping  upon  a  chair  he  discovered  in  the  rose- 
garden,  and  taking  a  good  sniff  at  a  convenient 
flower  before  he  felt  for  a  cigarette,  Gervase  paid  a 
passing  tribute  of  admiration  to  Winifred's  energy. 
The  way,  once  she  had  an  idea,  she  pushed  it 
through,  devoting  herself  quite  regularly  to  that  girl 
every  mortal  Wednesday  afternoon,  was  marvelous. 
And  a  girl  who  would  never  really  sing,  too  —  he 
differed  with  Winifred  there.  With  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  instructor  upon  her,  she  had  once  declared  that 
good  singing  was  only  a  question  of  an  organ,  and 
brains :  and  that  Rosie  had  both.  Gervase  disputed 
the  opinion,  and  demurred  to  the  facts.  The  voice 
was  merely  ordinary,  the  cleverness  superficial;  and 
moreover  something  further  was  necessary  that  Miss 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  199 

Maskery  had  not;  his  wife  had  only  to  sing  herself 
to  prove  the  truth  with  shattering  force.  Where- 
upon Mrs.  Escreet,  calling  him  a  sentimental 
donkey,  left  the  subject. 

"There,"  said  Gervase  to  the  roses,  as  the  key 
changed,  and  the  voice  as  well.  "  There  you  are, 
that's  Win's  idea.  What  more  do  you  want? " 
Then  he  fell  silent,  for  the  song  dated  back  in  his 
memory  to  their  time  of  courtship;  and  though  now, 
as  then,  the  melody  was  cool,  and  classically  ren- 
dered, it  made  him  feel  more  sentimental  than  ever, 
and  a  little  old. 

Nevertheless,  while  lightly  regretting  moments 
past,  Mr.  Escreet  failed  not  to  savor  the  moment 
he  had.  It  is  good  to  hear  music,  of  an  evening,  in 
the  sweet  country  air,  especially  after  several  hours 
of  an  ancient  library,  amid  its  smells  compact  of 
time-worn  leather,  and  gas,  and  dust.  Few  men  he 
knew  had  such  a  home,  or  pure  music  such  as  Win's 
to  turn  to  after  working-time.  There  was  nothing 
to  criticize  in  Win,  or  what  few  remarks  captious 
man  could  find  to  make  he  had  long  since  made. 
The  melody,  sanctified  by  a  great  name,  was  inap- 
proachable. The  voice,  naturally  equal  and  pure, 
had  been  trained  in  youth  by  a  teacher  whose  name 
again  was  sufficient  commentary.  It  was  worn  a 
very  little  —  perhaps;  but  it  was  her  voice,  which 
he  had  always  preferred,  and  to  which  he  was 


200  HERSELF 

accustomed.  She  sang  at  the  right  moment  too,  as 
Winifred  always  did,  the  moment  of  memories. 
Where  is  the  harm  of  memories,  when  there  are  none 
that  can  sting?  Gervase  Escreet  watched  his 
garden-close  with  kind  eyes,  and  fingered  a  crumpled 
tobacco-flower  on  the  plant  beside  him.  It  was 
waiting  its  precise  moment  in  the  twilight  to  change 
from  unsightliness  into  a  pure  sweet  star,  generous 
in  blessing.  Half -smiling,  Gervase  opened  it  de- 
liberately with  his  fingers,  and  bent  to  sniff.  No, 
the  moment  had  not  come,  the  flower  refused  its 
fragrance.  That  was  a  joy  to  come  later,  the  next 
on  his  list  of  good  things,  faithfully  preparing  for 
him.  Mr.  Escreet  was  of  the  opinion  of  the  old 
writer  of  Genesis  —  for  man's  service  only  the  birds, 
beasts,  and  flowers  of  earth  "  created  He  them."  He 
had  no  more  doubt  of  that  white  flower  being  his 
own  to  play  with  than  he  had  of  the  sole  possession 
of  Winifred,  singing  in  the  house.  It  was  all  good 
—  could  barely  be  improved:  or  at  least  he  had 
no  will  nor  energy  at  the  moment  to  think  of 
improvement. 

"Willst  du  dein  Herz  mir  schenken4?"  he  ob- 
served to  the  pair  of  performers,  when  they  came 
out  on  the  lawn.  "  Either  or  both  of  you,  it's  all  the 
same  to  me." 

"  Du  is  a  singular  pronoun,"  returned  Rosaline. 
"  It  must  be  one." 


FAROVER  801 

"  Bother,"  said  Gervase.  "  Yes,  that's  the  worst 
of  Germans." 

"  I  think  after  that  the  best  thing  for  me 
to  do  would  be  to  go  to  Auntie,"  said  Rosaline, 
with  a  pretty  prudish  air.  "Hadn't  I,  Mrs. 
Escreet?" 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  protested  the  master  of  the  house, 
who  found  that  Miss  Maskery  under  his  eyes  was 
very  different  from  Miss  Maskery,  a  second-rate 
performer  in  the  drawing-room.  "  Not  already. 
Well,  and  when  do  you  come  to  stop?  " 

He  saw  he  was  wrong  at  once,  by  the  slight  change 
in  Winifred's  face.  A  false  step  had  been  made, 
that  had  to  be  retraced.  Gervase  liked  to  act 
impulsiveness,  but  he  was  not  an  impulsive  man. 
He  had  the  cautious,  critical  brain,  always  feeling 
ahead  and  preparing  the  way:  in  which  way  he 
stepped  with  discretion  though  gaily,  smiling  on  the 
world. 

As  for  Rosaline,  she  was  impassive:  but  her 
heart  leapt  up  at  his  words.  It  was  Gervase  Escreet 
himself  who  had  spoken  to  her  chaffingly  of  Wini- 
fred's trouble  with  her  eyes;  and  the  need,  slowly 
defining  itself,  of  "  some  sort  of  girl "  in  the  house, 
to  help  her,  and  lighten  his  own  accumulation  of 
writing  and  copying.  She  had  given  the  point  small 
thought  at  the  time,  but  of  late  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Grayling,  had  recurred  to  it,  with  a  significance  not 


202  HERSELF 

to  be  missed.  It  might  just  do  for  Ann,  was  Mrs. 
Grayling's  opinion,  so  much  better  than  the  tiring, 
ill-paid  work  she  was  doing  in  Oxford.  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling hoped  she  had  hinted  as  much  to  Mrs.  Escreet, 
who  was  always  so  kind  and  generous.  It  would  be 
perfect  for  poor  Ann,  who  could  still  pursue  her 
political  work  in  the  district,  and  who  might  even 
continue  to  give  lessons  to  her  little  cousin,  as  she 
was  doing  at  present  four  times  in  the  week,  by  Mrs. 
Grayling's  arrangement. 

Now  Rosaline  was  fond  of  her  sister,  for  whom 
she  even  had  a  certain  admiration;  but  privately  she 
considered  that  "  poor  Ann  "  would  be  far  better 
suited  by  a  governess's  post  at  the  Vicarage,  than 
by  life  at  Farover.  Her  aunt  had  no  delicate  sense 
of  character,  or  of  the  spirit  of  a  place.  Even  she, 
Rosaline,  would  have  to  adapt  herself  a  little,  if  she 
came  into  the  life  of  Farover,  as  she  hoped  and 
intended  to  do.  She  would  dress  differently,  for 
instance,  be  less  exuberant  and  active,  and  take  to 
reading  again.  Ann  read  enough,  in  truth :  but  Ann 
would  never  enter  into  the  Farover  spirit  of  discus- 
sion: the  spirit  that  was  critical,  but  remote:  that 
saw  art  and  literature  through  a  glass  screen,  as  it 
were,  and  by  many  reflected  lights :  not  by  the  coarse 
light  of  day  and  reason  which  Ann,  clever  as  she 
was,  would  cast  upon  it.  Ann  would  jar  surely; 
she  would  be  out  of  tune ;  she  could  never,  never  be 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  203 

thought  of  in  conjunction  with  the  wonderful  Mrs. 
Escreet. 

During  the  tete-a-tete  she  had  had  with  Winifred, 
she  waited  eagerly  for  her  to  refer  to  the  subject. 
An  opening  was  easily  made,  for  it  was  natural  to 
enquire  after  the  defaulting  eyes.  Winifred  ad- 
mitted, smiling  with  a  good  courage,  that  she  had 
to  wear  spectacles  to  read  books  by  night,  and  music 
by  day:  and  during  the  singing-lesson,  she  wore 
them  rigorously;  but  the  subject  thinned  and  wore 
out,  and  nothing  came  of  it;  so  that  Rosaline,  un- 
willing to  believe  that  Mrs.  Grayling's  effort  for  Ann 
had  had  any  measure  of  success,  could  only  suppose 
that  the  just  moment  had  not  arrived  for  her  hostess 
to  broach  the  subject  with  her,  and  that  she  must 
"  stay  the  very  ripening  of  the  time,"  even  as  did  all 
who  had  concern  with  the  comfort  of  the  Escreets' 
lives. 

She  saw  now  in  Winifred's  face  that  the  time  was 
not  ripe  —  it  was  all  her  sanguine  youth  would  allow 
her  to  see;  and  she  turned  the  question  with  eager 
tact. 

"Auntie  cannot  have  me  yet,  I  am  afraid,"  she 
said.  "  She  has  promised  to  find  room  for  Ann,  at 
least  for  some  weeks  before  the  election,  but  there 
is  nowhere  to  put  me,  even  if  I  cared  for  it ;  and  you 
know  I  abominate  canvassing,  and  village  meetings, 
and  everything  Ann  most  enjoys." 


- 


204  HERSELF 

"  Isn't  the  Grayling  child  going  to  school?  "  said 
Winifred. 

"  I  hardly  think  so,"  said  Rosaline.  "  You  see, 
they  would  like  her  to,  only  Muriel  herself  refuses." 

"  They  will  never  get  her  taught,"  said  Winifred, 
with  disapproval.  "  She  is  a  terrible  little  savage. 
Mrs.  Grayling  has  no  idea  of  managing  Muriel. 
There  would  be  room  for  you  and  Ann  together, 
Rosie,  if  she  went." 

"  So  there  would,"  said  Rosaline:  her  hopes  sank 
lower,  for  she  felt  strongly  that  Farover  was  shut  to 
her.  Something  had  occurred  —  she  sought  in  vain 
for  what  —  to  make  her  less  welcome  within  its 
gates;  she  saw  it  dimly  in  her  hostess's  calm  face.  It 
was  the  fault  of  the  tactless  aunt,  most  probably; 
Rosaline  had  already  suffered  much  from  Mrs. 
Grayling's  virtuous  efforts  for  her  good. 

"  I  must  get  back  to  Ann,"  she  said.  "  It's  getting 
dark,  and  I  have  not  done  those  bills.  Good-bye 
and  thank  you  again,  dear  Mrs.  Escreet.  I  really 
will  try  to  get  the  middle  notes  steadier." 

So  she  went :  and  Mrs.  Escreet  found  her  comfort 
distinctly  more  complete  when  she  was  gone. 


II 


"  WHAT'S  up  about  Rosie  Maskery*?  "  said  Gervase 
at  leisure  after  dinner.  The  Escreets  never  hurried 
to  discuss  a  thing,  even  when  both  knew  it  was 
imminent.  They  shared  an  understanding  so  com- 
pletely, that  they  both  edged  off  a  subject  which 
promised  effort  until  the  inevitable  moment  had 
come  for  attacking  it.  The  moment  appeared  over 
the  silver  tea-tray,  at  nine  in  the  smoking-room. 

"  I  made  a  bad  move,  didn't  I?  "  said  the  master 
of  the  house.  "  Has  she  fallen  off,  Winnie*?  "  In 
his  wife's  estimation,  he  meant  —  not  that  Rosa- 
line's hair  was  dropping. 

"  Yes,"  said  Winifred  severely.  "  She  has  gone 
down  one:  and  Miss  Clench  has  come  up.  I  was 
going  to  explain  to  you  about  it." 

"Miss  Clench1?"  said  Gervase,  really  surprised. 
"Who  —  do  you  mean  that  girl  of  Brian's^  I 
thought  she'd  made  a  mess  of  it." 

"  So  she  has,  poor  child,"  said  Winifred.  "  And 
that  is  partly  why.  You  must  be  patient,  Gervase." 

Gervase  was  quite  inclined  to  be  patient,  having 


206  HERSELF 

the  first  wood-fire  of  the  season  to  look  at,  an 
Egyptian  cigarette,  and  a  cat  upon  his  knee.  It 
looked  at  present  as  if  Winifred  was  being  benevo- 
lent, but  he  did  not  believe  that.  Pure  benevolence 
was  not  her  "  form,"  —  rather  that  of  his  bugbear, 
Mrs.  Amabel  Grayling.  Gervase  waited. 

"Which  shall  we  take  first?"  said  Winifred. 
"  Rosaline  —  very  well.  Rosaline  is  nice  to  look  at, 
she  writes  a  good  hand,  she  knows  our  ways  more 
or  less,  and  we  both  like  her  —  pretty  well." 

"  Awfully,"  said  Gervase. 

"  Discount  it  a  little,  you  know,"  said  Winifred, 
"  for  the  effects  of  custom.  You  might  get  tired  of 
her  voice." 

"Might -I?"  said  Gervase.  "Well,  now  you 
mention  it,  I  might;  but  I  shouldn't  often  hear  her 
talking." 

"  I  should,"  said  Winifred.  "  I  am  not  sure,  after 
a  week  or  two,  that  Rosaline  mightn't  chatter." 

"  My  dear  Win,"  said  Gervase,  with  feeling,  "  if 
you  think  the  daughter  of  Brian  Clench,  as  I  knew 
him,  is  not  going  to  chatter " 

"  It  will  be  different,"  said  Winifred  calmly.  "  I 
am  coming  to  that  presently,  you  will  see.  To  pro- 
ceed, Rosaline  —  there's  still  a  drop,  by  the  way,  if 
you  would  like  a  third." 

"  Here  goes,"  said  Gervase. 

"  Just  like  a  man,"  said  Winifred,  reaching  the 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  207 

cup.  "  Beyond  the  second,  tea's  undrinkable. 
.  .  .  Rosaline,  until  quite  this  last  year,  has 
always  been  practically  prosperous.  She  is  a  girl, 
anyone  can  see,  who  takes  to  luxury  naturally.  Not 
that  this  is  luxury  "  —  and  she  passed  back  the  cup. 

"  This  is,"  said  Gervase,  receiving  it,  and  crossed 
his  legs.  "  Ready,  Win.  Go  on  explaining." 

"  Well  now,  you  know  what  I  mean,  and  you 
might  save  me  the  trouble  of  saying  it.  Rosaline 
would  not  assume  —  but  she'd  take  for  granted." 

"  An  admirable  distinction,"  said  Gervase,  sipping. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  give  me  better  words,  if 
you're  particular4?  I  can't  pick  over  lavender  and 
a  vocabulary  as  well.  The  feeling  I  want  to  express 
is  quite  natural." 

"  Won't  Miss  Brian  take  for  granted  too*?  "  sug- 
gested Gervase.  "  Her  Papa,  as  I  remember,  took 
everything  for  granted,  including  his  own  popularity 
and  position  in  society." 

"  I  wish  you  would  leave  Brian  Clench  out  of  it," 
said  Winifred,  with  a  touch  of  asperity.  "  Miss 
Brian,  as  you  call  her,  will  not  take  for  granted,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  I  shall  pay  her  a  salary." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Escreet.  "Ah."  He  stroked  the 
cat's  ears  in  a  reflective  manner. 

"  You  have  no  objection  to  that,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Gervase.  "  It  may,  as  you 
suggest,  obviate  much." 


208  HERSELF 

"  It  determines  her  position,"  said  Winifred.  "  I 
could  not,  of  course,  offer  Rosaline  a  salary.  She 
would  be  offended,  not  to  mention  her  aunt.  I 
should  never  hear  the  last  of  it  from  Mrs.  Grayling. 
And  here  we  come,  Ger,  to  the  next  serious 
objection." 

"  Leave  it  out,"  advised  Gervase.  "  It's  quite 
understood,  in  this  quarter.  Have  I  not  suffered, 
as  well  as  you?  It's  the  plush  jacket  that  does  for 
me." 

"Well,"  said  Winifred,  "it's  the  plush  jacket 
that  would  always  be  visiting  us,  if  Rosaline  was 
here  in  the  winter.  We  should  never  see  the  last  of 
it,  or  of  Amabel  inside  it  either.  A  parsoness's  visi- 
tation, Gervase,  I  can  stand.  I  can  even  ask  her  to 
dinner  once  a  quarter,  if  her  husband  is  there  to  keep 
her  in  order.  But  to  have  her  dropping  in  to  see  her 
niece,  and  advising  me  for  her  good,  and  both  of  them 
mowing  the  borders  for  the  Harvest  Festival " 

Ger  vase's  deep  groan  was  sufficient  commentary. 
Winifred,  having  glanced  at  him  once,  abandoned 
Mrs.  Grayling  and  proceeded. 

"  Finally  —  where  we  started,  I  think  —  Rosa- 
line is  very  attractive." 

"  I  prefer  'em  attractive,"  said  Mr.  Escreet. 

"  I  know  you  do,  and  I  have  considered  you  as 
well;  but  I  am  thinking  of  more  than  ourselves." 

"  Are  you?  "  said  Gervase,  growing  grave. 


FAROVER  209 

"  Yes.  Rosaline  might  attract  a  number  of  people 
possibly;  but  she  certainly  would  attract  Tom." 

Gervase  was  again  momentarily  interested. 
"  Tom  would  never  marry  her,"  he  observed.  "  He 
knows  his  duty  better  than  that." 

"  I  don't  say  he  would  marry  her.  I  don't  suppose 
any  of  them  would.  But  I  don't  want  to  drag  his 
poor  mother  through  all  that  again." 

Gervase  considered  Tom  Champion's  past,  which 
was  known  to  both  of  them.  "  I  thought  Tom's  Ma 
had  contemplated  Rosie  as  governess  when  the 
little  Clench  was  chucked,"  he  said.  "  Surely  that 
would  have  been  riskier  than  here." 

"Not  the  least  risky,"  said  Winifred.  "If  I 
could  get  Rosaline  into  that  good  place,  I  should  do 
it  to-morrow,  and  be  quit  of  worrying.  She  would 
be  under  Cousin  Grace's  eye,  and  Cousin  Grace 
would  be  responsible.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Tom 
kept  mooning  about  here,  she  would  consider  it  my 
fault  —  even  if  she  doesn't  already.  It  was  I  who 
introduced  them,  under  an  evil  star." 

"  Rosie  would  be  a  precious  governess,"  said  Mr. 
Escreet  thoughtfully. 

"  I  dare  say  she  would  not  do  it  badly,"  said 
Winifred,  "  and  the  salary  is  good.  She  is  not 
professional,  of  course." 

"  Is  the  little  Clench  professional?  "  said  Gervase. 

"  I  think  of  her  as  that  sort  of  girl." 


210  HERSELF 

"I  say,  do  you  think  of  her  also  as  good- 
looking?  " 

"  No,"  said  Winifred  deliberately. 

"Why?    Brian  was  a  handsome  dog." 

Mrs.  Escreet's  face  changed,  and  then  came 
straight  again.  "  A  married  niece  of  the  Champion's 
had  a  look  at  the  girl  in  Rouen,"  she  said.  "  Rather 
a  wizened  little  creature,  was  what  she  said,  though 
smart  enough  in  her  trade." 

Gervase  groaned  gently  again,  and  begged  her  for 
his  sake  to  change  the  word.  Winifred  ignored  him, 
and  devoted  herself  to  shredding  lavender. 

"Why  doesn't  little  Rosie  marry,  Win?"  he 
demanded  idly  soon. 

,  "  Oh,  really,"  said  Winifred.  "  One  gets  tired  of 
asking  why  pretty  and  accomplished  girls  don't 
marry.  I  suppose  it  is  the  higher  education:  there 
are  too  many  of  them." 

"  Is  that  what  they  learn?  "  enquired  Gervase. 

"  To  be  sure  it  is  —  look  at  these  new  University 
girls.  Plainness  and  strength  have  long  gone  out 
of  fashion." 

"  I'm  glad  plainness  is  out  of  fashion,"  said 
Gervase.  He  observed  his  wife  for  a  time  with 
satisfaction.  "  We  have  never  come  to  Miss 
Clench,"  he  reminded  her  at  last. 

"  Well,  that's  not  my  fault.  You  kept  dragging 
her  in  when  I  talked  of  Rosaline.  I  am  sure  I  don't 


FAROVER 

know,"  said  Winifred,  "  what  is  left  to  say  about 
her." 

"  What's  left?  —  and  you  the  mistress  of  a  house- 
hold! Everything  is  to  say,  to  judge  by  dear 
Cousin  Grace's  expression  in  conversation." 

"  Explain  what  you  mean,"  said  Winifred  heart- 
lessly. 

"Isn't  she  —  well  —  a  bit  of  a  devil?  Hasn't 
she  —  well  —  gone  the  pace?  Really,  Win,  you 
might  help  an  unfortunate  male  man." 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Winifred  deliberately, 
"  whether  I  think  she  has  been  a  little  fool,  I  should 
say  yes,  certainly.  Clenches  are  bound  to  be  that, 
sooner  or  later;  and  really  it's  providential  for 
Cousin  Grace  she  broke  out  when  she  did." 

"  Also  for  you,"  said  Gervase,  "  since  you  would 
have  recommended  her." 

"  Also  for  me.  But  —  well,  it  seems  fair  to  the 
child  to  give  her  a  second  chance.  To  judge  by  that 
niece's  account  in  the  spring,  she  is  in  very  low 


water." 


Gervase  waited. 

"Having  failed  so  badly  may  make  her  more 
amenable,  there's  always  that.  I  should  try  her  for 
a  short  term  first,  of  course.  She  may  be  out  of  the 
question:  very  likely  she  will." 

"She  got  tangled  up  with  a  man,  didn't  she?" 
said  Gervase.  "What's  become  of  the  man?" 


HERSELE 

"  Oh,  he's  gone  quite  off  the  scene.  She  has  been 
living  in  exemplary  dullness  at  Rouen  with  a 
virtuous  and  stupid  family.  I  have  ascertained  all 
that." 

"Tried  to  poison  herself,  didn't  she?"  said 
Gervase.  "  Or  was  it  another  party?  " 

"  Another  party,"  said  his  wife.  "  A  friend  of 
hers,  who  lived  with  her  in  Paris  for  a  time. 
Really,"  she  added,  frowning,  "  I  know  very  little 
about  it." 

"  And  don't  want  to  know  more,"  Gervase  sup- 
plied. "  Those  things  get  happening  in  France,  if 
you  will  insist  on  living  there.  A  very  demoralizing 
nation,  hey,  Mrs.  Gummidge?"  He  rolled  his  cat 
over  with  two  fingers,  awakening  in  the  process  the 
slit-half  of  an  amber  eye,  and  the  hysterical  remi- 
niscence of  a  purr.  The  cat  was  even  more  comfort- 
able than  Mr.  Escreet,  and  cared  nothing  for  his 
fingers.  "  Anyhow,"  he  said,  "  it  will  be  a  bit  of 
excitement  in  our  humdrum  lives."  His  wife 
shrugged,  shredded  lavender.  "  I  wonder  where  that 
thief  Brian  has  got  to,  Win.  Did  the  girl's  last  letter 
give  you  any  light?  " 

"  None.     She  ignored  my  question." 

"  Humph.  He's  not  dead,  or  somehow  I  think  we 
should  have  heard  of  it.  He  would  have  published 
his  death-bed  utterances,  or  left  us  all  legacies  of 


F  A  R  O  V-E  R  213 

other  people's  money,  and  things  of  that  sort, 
wouldn't  he?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Winifred.  "  Since  you 
suggest  it." 

"  The  little  girl  may  be  able  to  throw  light,  when 
we  get  her  here,  eh?  She  must  have  funds  from 
him,  or  how  could  she  have  been  living  in  these 
unpaid  posts?  " 

"  Oh,  naturally,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  with  a  slight 
show  of  impatience.  "  She  is  taught  to  keep  the 
counsel  of  the  clan,  that's  all." 

"  Let  us  hope  for  good  reasons,"  added  Gervase. 
Winifred  rose,  and  threw  all  the  stalks  of  the 
lavender  into  the  fire. 

"  Now  sniff,"  she  said  to  him;  and  they  sniffed  in 
concert. 

"  It's  the  littlest  tit-bit  too  like  incense,"  pro- 
nounced Gervase.  "  That's  the  only  thing  I  have 
against  it,  as  a  smell.  Sakes  alive,  Winifred,  won't 
that  Clench  girl  be  a  Catholic?  " 

"  What  then?  "  said  Mrs.  Escreet  serenely.  "  I 
shall  drive  her  into  Oxford  to  mass  in  the  victoria. 
It  sounds  shades  more  distinguished  than  the 
Cathedral.  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  not  accompany  her 
myself,  only  you  must  keep  it  from  Cousin  Grace 
if  I  do." 

"  When  is  the  great  scheme  to  fall  due?  "  was  Mr. 


HERSELF 

Escreet's  final  question:  after  a  little  of  what 
Winifred  herself  called  middle-aged  flirting. 

"  Oh,  not  yet,"  she  said  cheeringly.  "  I  couldn't 
get  ready  for  her  before  March.  There's  Sir 
George,"  she  reckoned,  "for  a  week  during  the  elec- 
tion; and  Leila  Adair  is  staying  over  Christmas,  you 
remember;  and  I  must  see  the  oculist  again  in 
February,  not  to  mention  Reuss  coming  over  to 
conduct  the  '  Ring.'  " 

"  Just  so,"  said  Gervase,  gravely  accepting  his 
crowded  programme  for  the  winter  season.  "  Well, 
then,  we  have  time  to  get  used  to  it,  haven't  we4? " 

They  separated,  as  ever  in  complete  sympathy 
and  on  a  common  understanding,  though  such  small 
communication  had  taken  place.  All  the  necessary 
"  explaining "  had  been  done  between  them,  and 
they  had  the  same  soothing  fact  to  console:  that 
the  splash  in  the  tranquil  waters  of  Farover,  with  its 
possible  rocking  of  their  well-balanced  lives,  was 
not  to  take  place  "  just  yet." 


Ill 


To  Winifred's  great  surprise,  Miss  Clench  did  not 
jump  at  her  proposal.  Indeed  it  needed  so  consider- 
able an  effort,  and  so  many  letters,  to  get  her  to 
come  to  Farover  at  all,  that  she  nearly  gave  it  up 
in  disgust,  and  fell  back  on  Rosaline.  Rosaline  was 
still  waiting  for  anything  that  might  turn  up, 
foistered  off  upon  Oxford  friends,  while  Ann,  in- 
dispensable and  unrequited  as  usual,  made  herself 
the  right  hand  of  Mr.  Champion's  electoral  agent 
in  the  Stackfield  district.  Winifred  herself,  beyond 
the  entertainment  of  a  single  member  of  Parliament 
who  happened  also  to  be  an  old  friend,  kept  herself 
apart  from  Election  vulgarities  and  distractions. 
She  believed  that  Gervase  had  recorded  a  vote  for 
her  cousin  on  polling-day,  but  she  could  not  even 
be  sure  of  that,  since  she  would  not  mention  the 
subject,  and  he  talked  of  other  things.  What  was 
more  to  the  point,  his  elaborate  notes  were  beginning 
to  take  book-form,  the  copying  he  required  con- 
stantly worried  her  eyes,  and  the  "  some  sort  of  a 
girl  "  began  to  be  quite  badly  needed. 


216  HERSELF 

Miss  Clench's  handwriting,  though  odd  and  rapid, 
was  very  readable,  and  Gervase  said  that  so  far  as 
that  went,  she  would  do.  The  difficulty  was,  the 
things  she  chose  to  write  with  it.  Whatever  she  was, 
she  was  not  the  clinging,  droll,  insinuating  girl  one 
would  have  expected  of  her  parentage.  Her  letters 
were  crisp  and  cool.  She  made  very  definite  pro- 
visions, as  though  it  were  in  some  sort  her  business 
to  guard  her  future  from  half-expected  mishaps;  she 
was  evidently  not  indifferent  to  money,  when  Wini- 
fred skimmed  the  subject;  and  she  was  only  occa- 
sionally wistful.  Winifred  did  not  much  like  Harrie 
from  her  letters;  but  she  was  curiously  spurred  by 
them  all  the  same,  and  she  pinned  the  girl  down  at 
last,  though  at  the  cost  of  some  effort,  as  has  been 
said. 

The  effort  was  concerned  with  the  placing  of  a 
kind  of  dog  of  Harrie' s,  a  German  woman  in  reduced 
circumstances,  who  would  not  live  far  from  her,  and 
when  she  came  to  England,  must  needs  come  too. 
This  creature,  warmly  recommended  by  Miss  Clench, 
was  fortunately  most  modest  in  her  requirements; 
and  when,  by  a  really  strenuous  effort  of  brain,  the 
needs  of  Muriel  Grayling  at  the  Vicarage  occurred 
to  Winifred's  mind,  the  person  accepted  the  post 
eagerly  for  a  nominal  salary,  less  even  than  Ann 
Maskery  had  been  receiving.  This  stroke  of  genius 
Mrs.  Escreet  accomplished  in  a  single  morning,  ac- 


FAROVER  *17 

quiring  virtue,  as  it  were,  on  all  sides,  while  serving 
her  central  purpose.  Ann,  who  was  desperately  busy 
for  the  moment  canvassing  and  cajoling  the  ignorant 
elector,  was  frankly  relieved  by  the  proposal. 
Muriel's  mother,  whom  a  few  hours  of  Muriel  com- 
pletely exhausted,  was  almost  tearful  with  gratitude. 
Muriel  herself,  freed  of  the  maddening  vision  of  a 
boarding-school  in  January,  promised  herself  much 
innocent  amusement  from  the  German  lady's  ac- 
quaintance ;  and  her  father  only  thanked  fortune  that 
the  person  was  a  Protestant. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  first  place  where 
Harriet  called,  on  her  arrival  in  Stackfield  after  her 
long  journey,  was  at  the  parsonage.  The  Escreets 
considered  the  Grayling's  living-rooms  a  nightmare 
of  comfortless  disorder;  but  to  Harrie's  eyes,  used 
to  the  sheer  penury  of  a  Rouen  flat,  the  parlor 
seemed  very  inviting  and  comfortable. 

"  You  will  be  happy  here,  Bertha,"  she  murmured. 
"  Don't  cry.  Yes,  wait:  I  will  come  in  with  you  a 
moment." 

Muriel,  aged  twelve,  was  excited,  and  had  pre- 
pared a  rowdy  welcome  for  the  shrinking  stranger 
who  pretended  to  teach  her ;  but  she  retreated  rather 
awed  at  the  sight  of  a  second  visitor. 

"  Muriel,  is  it*?  "  said  Harrie  gently.  "  Is  your 
mother  there  —  I  should  just  like  to  see  her." 

Muriel  led  them  in,  and  Mrs.  Grayling  rose  up  to 


218  HERSELF 

meet  them  from  a  hard  sofa.  She  was  a  thin  woman 
with  projecting  teeth,  worn  eyes,  and  scanty  hair; 
she  could  never  have  had  any  claims  to  beauty,  and 
untiring  work  in  the  parish  and  at  home  had  not 
improved  her  appearance.  She  identified  Harriet 
without  an  introduction,  and  received  her  coldly: 
then,  turning  to  Bertha,  she  took  her  hand,  and 
with  a  few  low  words  of  earnest  goodwill,  saved  her 
from  the  threatening  storm  of  tears. 

"She  will  be  all  right  in  an  hour,"  said  Mrs. 
Grayling.  "  It  was  kind  of  you  to  bring  her  in. 
You  both  talk  English,  I  suppose." 

Her  worn  gray  eyes,  very  still  and  piercing,  were 
turned  upon  Miss  Clench.  Mrs.  Grayling  had  been 
talking  with  Mrs.  Champion  about  this  girl,  that 
very  afternoon.  Madame  Barriere's  distorted  story 
had  been,  by  devious  ways,  slowly  filtering  through 
the  parish;  though  filtering  is  not  the  word,  for  it 
was  cleared  of  nothing  in  the  process.  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling was  not  at  all  sure,  wonderful  as  Mrs.  Escreet 
was,  and  enviable  in  her  wide-minded  knowledge  of 
the  world,  if  she  had  done  right  to  bring  the  subject 
of  such  reports  into  the  village.  She  had  not  the  air 
of  a  penitent  now,  as  she  stood  under  the  central 
light,  with  the  rough-haired  Muriel  pressing  up  to 
her  side.  She  was  watching  the  girl  more  than  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Grayling  noticed. 

"  Fraulein  Lindt  speaks  English  very  well,"  was 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  319 

her  reply  to  the  last  question.  The  child,  who  had 
no  manners,  had  seized  her  rough  fur  necklet,  and 
was  stroking  its  dependant  head. 

"Where  does  he  come  from?"  she  asked. 

"  From  a  French  shop,"  replied  Harrie.  "  And 
before  that  from  a  farther  place,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

"A  really  far  place4?"  said  Muriel. 

"  Out  and  beyond  the  world."  Miss  Clench  was 
absently  grave. 

"  I'm  going  there,"  Muriel  exclaimed.  "  D'you 
—  d'you  mean  in  America?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Clench,  "  there  are  hunters  in 
Canada,  I've  heard." 

"  D'you  know  all  about  it?  "  The  child's  eyes 
shone  as  she  still  teased  the  fur.  "  Will  —  will  you 
come  with  me,  when  I  go?  " 

"  My  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Grayling  anxiously,  "  this 
lady  has  just  come  over  the  sea  to  live  with  Mrs. 
Escreet."  With  Muriel,  her  mother  had  still  the 
trick  of  childish  phrases. 

"  Oh !  —  then  doesn't  she  want  to  come?  "  The 
child's  face  dropped.  "  Well,  dash  it  all,"  she  said, 
"as  if  I  cared."  Her  mother  winced,  and  tried 
awkwardly  to  put  a  hand  across  her  mouth;  but 
Miss  Clench  did  not  seem  to  notice. 

"  I'd  give  half  my  fortune  to  go,"  she  said  in  her 
weary  little  voice.  "  Only  it  wouldn't  get  me  half 


220  HERSELF 

the  way.    But  there's  a  time  for  all  things :  and  one 
of  these  days  —  you'll  see." 

With  that  she  nodded  at  Muriel,  and  shortly 
afterwards  she  disappeared  into  the  dark  again. 
Muriel  opened  and  shut  her  mouth  many  times  dur- 
ing the  next  half-hour,  as  though  things  were  stirring 
in  her  spirit  that  she  could  say;  but  the  singular 
result  of  Miss  Clench's  visit  was  that  eventually  — 
that  is,  at  bed-time  —  she  had  not  made  as  much 
noise  as  usual. 

Meanwhile,  Harriet  received  the  kindest  of  wel- 
comes from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Escreet:  so  kind  as  to 
be  almost  confusing,  especially  as  they  were  both 
a  little  nervous.  The  girl  was  passive  with  weari- 
ness, and  did  not  talk  much;  but  in  what  she  did 
say  she  was  so  childish  as  to  take  them  both  aback. 
The  master  of  the  house,  who  in  order  to  fill  up 
awkward  pauses  had  made  himself  most  droll  and 
delightful,  gave  vent  to  this  astonishment  at  dinner. 

"  Are  you  old  enough,"  he  enquired,  "  to  have 
wine*?  Perhaps  you  have  never  dined  downstairs 
before." 

Miss  Clench  took  him  in,  and  she  had  eyes  which 
understood. 

"As  to  floors,"  she  said,  "  I  have  not  had  much 
choice.  I've  had  a  flat  life.  Isn't  that  what  you 
call  it?" 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R 

"  I  dare  say  I  should  if  I  knew,"  said  Gervase,  who 
was  carving.  "  She's  had  a  flat  life,  Winifred. 
Can't  we  give  her  a  tall  one,  for  a  change?  " 

"  You  would  cut  straighter  if  you  talked  less 
nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  who  had  an  aspect  of 
unspeakable  soft  dignity  in  her  beautiful  dinner- 
gown.  Miss  Clench  did  not  stare,  she  noticed, 
but  gave  her  a  flashing  look  from  time  to  time. 
She  was  plainly,  even  poorly  dressed  herself,  in 
black  serge,  but  what  little  linen  and  lace  appeared 
was  arranged  with  French  neatness  and  delicacy. 

"  What  is  a  tall  life1?  "  enquired  Harrie. 

"A  life,"  said  Gervase,  struggling  with  the  joint, 
"  which  it  is  really  impossible  to  believe.  .  .  . 
Did  you  never  meet  anybody  who  had  led  one"?  " 

"Gervase!"  exclaimed  Winifred;  and  then,  the 
instant  afterwards  added,  "  You  are  splashing  the 
gravy." 

To  his  great  surprise  the  girl  laughed  at  his 
second  remark,  which  had  been  innocent  enough  of 
intention,  and  looked  straight  at  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "  And  have  you  as 
well?" 

"  I  have,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Escreet,  searching 
rather  wildly  for  something  further  that  was  foolish 
to  say,  for  Winifred's  tone  had  been  in  warning. 
He  had  meant  no  reference  to  Brian,  and  he  could 
not  be  sure  the  girl  had  suspected  one.  If  she  had, 


222  HERSELF 

she  was  certainly  not  offended:  which  was  again  — 
odd. 

"  How  old  are  you,  really*?  "  he  said,  to  cover  his 
confusion.  "  Whisper  —  I  will  not  tell  her." 

"  I  am  eighteen  and  a  half,"  said  Miss  Clench 
gently.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  conceal  it." 

Gervase  sat  down  after  his  labors,  and  put  his  two 
fists  on  the  table  to  rest  them.  "  But  you  must," 
he  said  solemnly.  "  You  must.  I  can't  have  a  secre- 
tary of  that  age;  my  club  would  lose  all  respect  for 
me." 

"  Not  if  the  secretary  was  a  good  one,"  said 
Harrie.  Her  forehead  knit  up  in  a  small  straight 
line.  "I'd  dearly  like  to  have  my  own  age  again," 
she  said.  "  I  have  been  living  beyond  it :  and  add- 
ing a  bit,  you  know,  to  make  people  think  better  of 
me." 

"How  old  were  you  in  Rouen?  "  said  Winifred, 
glancing  at  her  husband. 

"  Twenty- three,"  the  girl  confessed. 

"  And  how  many  birthdays  did  you  have?  "  said 
Gervase. 

"  None  at  all."  Mr.  Escreet  thumped  the  table 
gently  with  his  fist. 

"  That's  where  the  mistake  is,"  he  said.  "  When 
people  don't  keep  their  real  birthdays  carefully, 
they  lose  all  conscience.  Do  you  mean  the  birthday 
passed  —  blank?"  He  gesticulated  with  two 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R 

hands.  "No  letters •— parcels :  nothing  red  or 
green?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  this  last  one." 

"  Winifred,"  said  Mr.  Escreet,  with  an  air  of 
reproachful  suffering,  "  no  wonder  this  life  is  a  flat 
one." 

Winifred  met  his  gaze  with  another  equally  ex- 
pressive. "  Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  in  her  smooth, 
equable  tone,  "  that  your  father  does  not  write  to 
you,  my  dear?  " 

Harrie  blushed  a  little.  "I  mean,"  she  said, 
"  that  I  do  not  get  his  letters.  He  may  well  have 
written,  to  the  house  I  lived  in  last  year." 

"  What,  and  they  have  not  sent  it  on  to  you?  " 

"  They  have  not,"  said  Harrie,  and  rested  her  fair 
head  on  her  hand.  "  I  should  have  arranged  it  at 
the  Versailles  post-office  perhaps  —  but  I  left  there 
in  a  hurry.  And  the  directions  I  have  sent  them 
since  have  no  effect:  people  in  post-offices  are  so 
stupid,  are  they  not?  Doubtless  it  is  the  heat." 

Both  host  and  hostess  gazed  at  her  helplessly. 

"But  you  mean  then,"  said  Winifred  at  last, 
"  that  your  father  has  lost  you?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  lost  me,"  said  Harrie,  and  there  was 
a  marked  note  of  eagerness  in  her  voice.  "  I  am 
afraid  he  has." 

When  she  rose  from  the  table  she  looked  so  tired, 


HERSELF 

that  Winifred  saved  her  from  Gervase,  and  sent  her 
to  bed. 

"  Do  not  bother  to  unpack,"  she  said,  as  she  held 
the  girl's  little  hand  uncertainly.  "Hester,  will 
do  it." 

"  Oh,  it  will  not  take  long,"  said  Harriet. 

She  would  fain  have  had  her  new  room  to  herself 
on  arrival,  but  the  serious  maid  was  there,  opening 
drawers  and  hanging  things  in  cupboards. 

"  It  is  not  crushed,  I  hope,"  said  Harrie,  of  what 
she  was  hanging.  "  That  is  my  only  dress." 

It  was  the  same  blue  dress  of  which  Madeleine 
had  spoken  with  approval,  and  it  was  one  of  Brian's 
presents  to  her,  sent  in  kind,  not  in  the  form  of 
money.  You  cannot  pawn  a  ready-made  dress  — 
particularly  if  it  is  your  own  color  and  fits  you  — 
however  much  you  may  be  of  the  saving  and  ant- 
like  disposition. 

"  It  is  not  crushed  at  all,  Miss,"  said  Hester.  "  It 
couldn't  have  got  so,  packed  in  the  manner  it  was." 
Hester  was  an  accomplished  maid,  and  her  approba- 
tion was  worth  having.  Harrie  looked  pleased,  as 
she  sat  down  rather  lifelessly  before  the  glass. 

"  Shall  I  do  your  hair?  "  said  Hester.  Young 
men  calling  on  the  Escreets  found  Hester  paralyz- 
ing, her  manner  was  so  capable,  and  so  cloistrally 
severe.  A  very  young  man  was  always  certain  he 


FAROVER  225 

had  turned  up  the  wrong  corner,  or  left  the  wrong 
card. 

"  Oh,  do,"  said  Miss  Clench.  "  That's  the  kind 
thought  to  have,  when  I  am  so  tired." 

Hester  smiled  grimly,  standing  aside  from  the 
looking-glass,  and  brushed  out  the  curly  hair, 
admiring  it  as  she  brushed.  Harrie  said  nothing  to 
her  at  all;  her  face  in  the  mirror  was  set  and  pon- 
dering; she  only  thanked  the  maid  with  a  smile 
before  she  left  the  room. 

"  She's  not  a  tattler,"  said  Hester,  with  approval 
in  the  kitchen.  "  Not  a  question  did  she  ask  me, 
though  she  had  the  chance :  not  that  she'd  have  got 
an  answer  if  she  had.  But  she's  the  bonniest  little 
face  on  her,  and  as  tired  as  a  baby.  I'd  have  liked 
to  have  kissed  her,  only  she  was  that  grave  and 
innocent." 

The  cook  was  impressed,  for  Hester's  opinion 
went  for  something  in  the  household.  "  Not  much 
luggage  she  had,"  observed  the  cook.  "  John  carried 
it  up  single-' anded." 

"She's  nothing,"  said  Hester.  "Except,  of 
course,  what  a  young  lady  must  have.  You  might 
take  my  word  for  it,  Marion,  she's  nothing.9' 

There  was  a  scandalized  pause  again. 

"  What's  her  father  been  doing?  "  said  the  cook. 
"  You  said  she  had  a  father,  didn't  you?  " 


286  HERSELF 

"Ah  —  she's  got  his  portrait,"  said  Hester.  Her 
grimness  was  extreme. 

"  Sure  of  it,  are  you*?  "  said  the  cook. 

"  Mrs.  Escreet  has  a  signed  one,  another  view." 
Hester  paused.  "  Whatever  he's  doing,  it's  not  his 
duty." 

"  They're  pore,"  said  the  cook,  with  condescension. 

"  Poor  or  not,  I  know  what  I'm  talking  of." 

The  cook  Marion  was  discreet,  being  on  one 
season's  standing.  "  He  was  here  soon  after  their 
marriage,  weren't  he?"  she  suggested.  "I  re- 
member you  once  said  you  had  it  from  old  Kate." 
She  alluded  to  one  of  the  stories  of  the  household, 
passed  down  in  all  good  country  families. 

"  He  never  came  into  a  house,"  said  Hester,  "  ex- 
cept to  turn  it  upside-down.  That's  the  sort  he  was, 
and  all  the  young  servants  loving  him." 

"  Did  he  get  what  he  come  for?  "  said  Marion. 

"  He  did  and  more.  Pounds,"  said  Hester,  "  he 
must  have  had  from  them,  and  not  one,  you  mark 
my  words,  but  both.  I  never  knew  a  man  like  him 
—  not  that  I  knew  him  direct.  But  the  talk  he 
made  would  last  a  house  a  life-time." 

"  What  was  her  mother?  "  said  the  cook,  return- 
ing after  a  respectful  interval  to  Harrie. 

"  I  don't  know  and  don't  want  to,"  said  Hester. 
She  added  inconsequently,  "  Whoever  it  was,  I'm 
sorry  for  her." 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  227 

The  cook  sniffed:  a  demonstration  in  the  kitchen 
world  that  means  many  things. 

"  She  called  me  '  sir/  "  said  Mr.  Escreet,  walking 
the  drawing-room  in  comic  consternation.  "  What 
have  I  done,  at  my  age,  to  be  addressed  as  '  sir '  by 
a  little  school-marm  baggage  of  eighteen?" 

"I  thought  it,"  said  Winifred  slowly,  "not 
unsuitable." 

"  What*?  "  said  Gervase,  stopping. 

"  Well,"  said  his  wifej^oking  him  over  with  kind 
eyes  at  leisure^-ie^asriot  an  entirely  easy  situation 
for  anybed^T  But  if  you  ask  me,  I  think  the  girl 
off,  on  the  whole,  in  dress  and  manner  as  well, 
better  than  we  did  ourselves." 

"  What  did  we  leave  out*?  "  said  Gervase  scratch- 
ing his  well-shaven  cheek. 

"  It's  what  we  put  in."  Winifred  smiled  at  his 
face.  "  No,  really,  I  ask  you,  Ger,  with  the  future 
before  us,  is  it  quite  fair  to  begin  by  treating  a 
salaried  companion  like  —  well,  your  favorite 
niece?  " 

"  Niece?  "  murmured  Gervase.  "  Oh,  say  grand- 
daughter at  once."  He  looked  disturbed,  though 
still  comical.  "  It's  the  age  of  the  creature,"  he  said. 

"  It's  an  annoyance,  I  own,  her  being  so  young  — 
granted  it's  true,  of  course." 

"True?"  said  Mr.  Escreet,  his  face  lengthening. 


228  HERSELF 

"It's  quite  a  degree  more  pathetic  to  appear  as 
eighteen,  especially  if  she  suspects  certain  tales  have 
preceded  her." 

"  Oh,  aren't  you  a  little  rough  on  her? "  said 
Gervase. 

"  No,  I'm  reasonable.  You  must,"  said  Wini- 
fred, "  remember  to  reckon  in  her  birth  and  up- 
bringing :  not  only  what  she  is,  but  what  others  have 
been  before  her.  She  comes  knowing  we  have  no 
chance  of  testing  her  statements,  doesn't  she?  Well, 
that,  to  a  person  of  imagination,  is  a  temptation  as 
it  stands.  A  young  appearance  would  be  another: 
though  one  knows  that  American  complexion  may 
be  any  age." 

Gervase's  face  was  still  long.  "  There's  no  time,'' 
he  declared,  "  for  her  to  be  more  than  one-and- 
twenty.  Think  of  the  date  of  our  own  marriage, 
Win.  You  are  not  pretending  to  assert  the  Clench 
was  married  when  he  came?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  Winifred,  rather  bitterly. 
"  However,  I  do  not  assert  it.  She  need  not  have 
taken  off  more  than  a  year  or  two.  Considering 
the  date  of  the  supposed  esclandre,  eighteen  is  — 
well,  artistic." 

Gervase  tramped  about  again  before  he  came  to 
his  next  stop.  They  must  always  find  something  to 
argue,  he  and  Win;  but  to-night  an  unaccustomed 
necessity  weighed  upon  him.  He  took  a  bold  step. 


FAROVER  229 

"  Aren't  you  judging  her  on  her  father?  "  he  said. 

"  We  have  nothing  else  at  present  to  judge  her 
on,"  answered  Winifred  quietly.  "  And  she  is  very 
like  him." 

"Like  Brian?"  cried  Mr.  Escreet. 

"  You  mean  you  did  not  see  the  likeness?  "  Mrs. 
Escreet  had  risen  too;  she  leant  against  the  high 
fire-place,  shielding  her  face  from  the  blaze  with 
one  hand.  "  However,  that  is  not  the  point,  as  it 
happens,  for  a  girl's  education  depends  on  the 
other  side." 

"The  mother,  eh?" 

"  The  thing  I  must  make  it  my  business  to  find 
out,  is  what  the  mother  was  worth:  whether  the 
child  had  any  early  education  worth  the  name.  I 
want  to  avoid  sentimentality,  Gervase,  and  get 
facts." 

"  Facts,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Escreet. 

"  I  don't  want  to  spoil  the  girl,"  said  Winifred  in 
measured  tones.  "I  want  to  reinstate  her:  to  start 
her  in  an  honest  life,  here  or  elsewhere,  if  only  for 
her  father's  sake." 

Her  voice  had  sunk  rather  on  the  last  phrase, 
and  Gervase  was  silent  for  a  period.  He  was  im- 
pressed, as  Winifred  had  always  easily  impressed 
him;  she  looked  perfectly  splendid,  leaning  against 
the  oaken  chimney-place,  and  backed  by  a  Chinese 
screen  of  silk  and  gold;  but  for  all  his  habit  of 


230  HERSELF 

admiration,  there  was  something  separate  moving 
within  him  as  well.  It  was  quite  vague,  this  feeling. 
He  was  not  desperately  critical,  either  of  her  or  of 
others,  asking  only  for  an  easy  life:  but  his  wits 
were  lively  this  evening,  owing  to  unlooked-for 
excitement  or  good  wine,  and  he  seemed  to  see,  in 
her  late  admirable  attitude,  an  inconsistency.  The 
little  Clench  was  to  be  made  honest  —  was  that  it,  by 
chance?  —  for  her  father's  sake:  while  the  dis- 
honesty charged  to  her  was  largely  that  father's 
legacy.  Winifred's  logic  was  so  habitually  superior 
to  his  own,  that  it  was  hardly  in  Gervase  to  suspect 
it.  He  preferred  to  prowl  about  the  soft  carpet,  and 
fix  a  good  point  of  view  from  which  to  enjoy  her 
against  the  screen. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  keep  her,  then?  "  he  said  in  his 
usual  manner  of  idle  sympathy. 

"  How  can  I  pronounce,  the  first  evening?  "  said 
Winifred,  turning  on  him  good-humoredly.  "  You 
are  really  too  absurd,  Gervase.  She  seems  quite  a 
nice  little  thing;  and  she  has  got  a  look  about  her 
as  if  she  might  be  useful." 

"  To  somebody,"  suggested  Gervase. 

"  To  somebody,  of  course.  Whether  she  suits  this 
house,"  said  Winifred,  "  is  another  question." 


IV 


SURPRISING  though  it  might  seem,  Miss  Clench  had 
two  letters  waiting  for  her  on  the  breakfast-table 
the  next  morning,  both,  Mrs.  Escreet  observed,  in  a 
masculine  handwriting.  This  entertained  her:  but 
she  made  no  remark  to  Gervase,  who  was  starting 
off  early  to  his  Oxford  library.  Oxford  was  only 
two  stations  away  from  Stackfield  by  train,  but 
Gervase,  who  was  proud  of  his  energy  and  athletic 
figure,  preferred  his  bicycle  on  all  but  the  worst 
mornings. 

"  She  is  late,"  he  observed,  looking  at  the  empty 
place. 

"  She  was  tired,"  said  Winifred,  "  and  I  told  Hes- 
ter not  to  wake  her.  It  seems,"  she  added  to  amuse 
him,  "  that  she  brought  an  alarm  clock,  which  Hes- 
ter had  the  sense  to  leave  among  the  papers  in  her 
trunk.  This  morning  I  shall  have  the  trunk  put  in 
the  garret,  so  we  shall  not,  at  any  rate,  be  teased 
with  that." 

"  Poor  little  person,"  said  Gervase,  rather  sadly. 
He  made  his  final  preparations.  His  wife  gave  him 


HERSELF 

three  violets  for  his  buttonhole,  and  debated  for  five 
minutes  whether  to  add  a  leaf. 

"  Remember  to  think  really  hard  about  the  sixth 
man  for  dinner  on  the  eighteenth,"  she  said. 
"  Whatever  you  do,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  for  there  is 
Grace  to  please  as  well  as  me;  and  do  try  to  be  back 
in  time  for  luncheon." 

Then  she  turned  back  to  the  morning-room,  and 
directed  Hester  about  Miss  Clench's  breakfast. 

"  The  young  lady  says  she  will  only  take  a  cup  of 
coffee,"  observed  Hester. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  Winifred.  "  It  doesn't  mean 
she  is  ill,  I  suppose?  " 

"In  quite  good  spirits,"  said  Hester  demurely. 
"  Shall  I  put  the  letters  on  the  tray,  madam?  " 

"  No :  I  will  bring  them,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet, 
laying  a  hand  upon  them.  "  I  am  coming  up  di- 
rectly." 

However,  Miss  Clench  did  not  even  look  at  her 
letters  when  they  were  passed  to  her,  she  was  so 
eager  to  apologize. 

"  It's  dreadful  of  me,"  she  said,  sitting  up  in  bed 
to  clasp  her  knees.  "  And  I  told  Hester,  it's  not  that 
I  don't  know  the  English  habits.  I  have  been  look- 
ing it  up  to  be  quite  sure,  and  I  know  exactly  what 
you  do  all  day." 

"  What  do  we  do,  I  wonder?  "  laughed  Winifred, 
sitting  down.  "  I  am  surprised  you  found  books  of 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  383 

reference,  my  dear."  The  appellation  was  out  be- 
fore she  knew  it ;  the  girl,  with  her  hair  loose  against 
the  frilled  pillows,  looked  so  ridiculously  young. 

"  Oh,  I  could  get  some  English  books  there  — 
and  there  were  Brian's  old  letters  to  help.  You'll 
excuse  me  calling  my  father  that,"  she  added 
quickly.  "  For  I  know  you  were  acquainted." 

"  I  suppose  one  of  those  is  not  from  him,"  said 
Winifred  carelessly.  Harriet  glanced  at  the  pair  as 
they  lay  in  her  hand.  "  No,"  she  said,  and  blushed 
a  little.  "  These  are  friends.  Oh,  dear,  they  have 
found  my  address  very  quickly,  haven't  they?  " 

Winifred  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  this;  it 
looked  like  over-acted  innocence. 

"  Do  you  not  like  receiving  letters'?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  love  it,"  said  Miss  Clench  with  decision. 

"You  have  some  regular  correspondents,  then?" 

"  Well  —  only  one  that's  regular."  She  glanced 
at  the  letters  again  and  laughed. 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  rising.  "Well,  I 
would  not  prevent  you  from  reading  your  corre- 
spondence. Will  you  come  down  when  you  are 
ready,  and  you  shall  see  the  place  a  little.  You  will 
want  to  take  your  bearings  —  vous  orienter,  hein?  " 
She  smiled. 

"  I  do  that  pretty  quick,"  said  Harriet.  "  Is  there 
no  work  to  do?  " 

"  Gervase  has  left  some  lists,  he  said;  but  really 


234  HERSELF 

there's  no  hurry.  As  for  me,  let's  see  — "  Mrs. 
Escreet  considered  serenely.  "  Can  you  copy  music, 
I  wonder?" 

"I  can,"  said  Harrie,  in  an  Irish  flash  without 
winking.  "  Why,  there,"  she  added,  "  I  had  forgot- 
ten, and,  of  course,  my  father  told  me." 

"  What  did  he  tell  you?  "  said  Winifred,  stop- 
ping short. 

"  Only  that  you  had  music  like  few  he  had 
known."  Harrie  added  almost  at  once.  "  He 
meant,  of  course,  out  of  the  profession." 

The  magnificent  Mrs.  Escreet  felt  not  exactly 
offended,  but  the  edges  of  her  serenity  were  ruffled. 
She  remembered  in  a  rush  how  often  the  detrimental 
Brian  had  ruffled  it.  With  him,  it  was  a  curiously 
tolerable  experience;  but  the  manner,  as  aped  by  a 
girl,  almost  reached  impudence.  She  was  calm, 
however,  merely  noting  it  down  among  her  morn- 
ing's impressions. 

"  You  are  not  a  musician  yourself,  I  suppose," 
she  said. 

"  Not  I,  no,"  said  Harrie.  "  But  it's  as  well," 
she  added,  her  gray-blue  eyes  gazing  sadly  out  of 
the  window,  "  for  I  wouldn't  have  got  my  living  by 
it,  anyway." 

"Anyhow,"  Winifred  corrected  mechanically. 
"  Excuse  me  —  your  English  for  the  most  part  is 
very  good;  but  'anyway'  sounds  vulgar." 


FAROVER  285 

"  I  am  sorry,  I  am  sure,"  murmured  little  Miss 
Clench.  Winifred  proceeded. 

"  Why  should  you  not  have  got  your  living  by 
music4?  Many  people  do." 

"  They're  exceptions  if  they  manage  it,"  said 
Harriet,  "  which  I  am  not.  There's  nothing  excep- 
tional about  me."  She  gazed  with  the  same  serious 
eyes  at  her  hostess. 

"  There  is  teaching "  Mrs.  Escreet  was  cut 

off. 

"  Teaching,  oh,  yes.  But  that  I  never  could  have 
borne." 

"  You  surely  cannot  tell  till  you  try,"  argued 
Winifred,  vexed  again.  Had  she  not  herself  con- 
descended to  give  a  music-lesson  —  at  least  once  a 
week? 

"Oh,  I've  tried  it,"  responded  the  irritating 
Irishwoman  lightly.  "I've  tried  a  number  of  things 
in  my  time." 

Mrs.  Escreet  retired,  with  as  much  dignity  as  she 
could  muster,  closing  the  door  with  careful  quietness. 
This  girl,  she  decided  in  the  drawing-room,  was  not 
going  to  be  as  simple  as  she  looked  to  manage.  One 
thing  also  was  clear  as  well  to  Mrs.  Escreet's  mind: 
to  be  as  sharp  as  that,  she  could  not  possibly  be 
eighteen. 

Harrie  read  her  letters:  Pat's  first  and  then 
Geoffry's. 


236  HERSELF 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  CLENCH,"  wrote  Geoffry, 

"  Your  last  found  me  in  despair  over  my  play, 
but  now  I  believe  I  have  succeeded.  When  I  am 
like  that  I  do  not  write  to  anybody,  for  I  crowd  my 
own  business  and  my  own  woes  upon  them.  Thanks 
to  your  hint,  Vanessa  is  much  better.  It  never 
struck  me  those  few  words  of  Churchill's  would 
make  her  so  furious  —  but  I  saw  you  were  right,  and 
I  changed  her  answer.  After  which  I  found  that 
speech  threw  out  the  whole  scene  following,  and  I 
re-wrote  the  lot  to  tone.  Now  I  am  so  pleased  with 
it  and  her  that  I  am  itching  to  read  it  to  somebody. 
If  only  Pat  were  here :  he  used  to  annoy  me,  he  was 
so  careless,  but  he  generally  threw  light  on  some- 
thing, whether  the  thing  I  asked  or  another:  and 
he  always  knew  by  a  kind  of  second-sight  what  was 
impossible. 

"  I  have  been  a  sad  time  over  this  play,  but  Thorn- 
tree  has  heard  it  unfinished,  and  I  think  it  will  really 
see  the  stage  in  London  in  May  or  June.  Then  I 
shall  have  to  follow  it  —  if  only  to  keep  an  eye  on 
Vanessa.  Tell  me  if  you  hear  anything  of  a  girl 
called  Elsie  Bridgnorth,  who  is  probably  to  play 
her.  How  dares  she  or  any  Elsie  undertake  it? 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  get  on,  and  be 
kept  up-to-date  in  the  collecting.  I  hope  these  peo- 
ple will  look  after  you,  and  not  let  you  have  colds  so 
often.  I  should  like  to  say  —  do  not  judge  England 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  23T 

by  its  country  couples,  but  as  they  are  a  serious 
weight  in  English  opinion,  I  can't.  Go  to  Oxford, 
won't  you,  it's  my  town:  and  it  means  more  than 
London  and  more  than  Eton  (Cambridge  I  don't 
allude  to)  in  what  we  have  been  and  shall  be.  Find 
a  tree  that  touches  the  ground  in  New  College,  and 
sit  under  it  on  Sunday  evening  between  five  and 
six.  There  used  to  be  a  local  dryad  there. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  G.  HORN." 

"  Madame  Rochette  has  indulged  in  another 
'  attack,'  and  I  suppose  I  must  let  her  come  to  Lon- 
don. I  prevaricated  adroitly  with  Morough,  so  I 
thought :  but  when  he  telegraphed  for  your  address, 
reply  paid^  what  could  I  do*?  " 

Harriet  replied  to  him  in  sections  all  that  week, 
and  sent  the  whole  within  the  fortnight,  which  was 
prompter  than  her  wont.  Neither  his  epistolary 
form  nor  hers  demanded  a  reply.  She  often  held 
his  letters  back,  and  sent  them  when  a  letterless  con- 
dition could  suddenly  be  borne  no  longer.  As  often 
she  tore  up  the  little  budget,  or  dropped  it  in  the 
fire.  "  That's  no  good  to  him  or  me,"  she  generally 
observed  aloud  as  she  did  so.  This  week,  however, 
whether  it  were  that  her  new  circumstances  spurred 
her  to  confidence,  or  that  she  really  needed  his  opin- 
ion, the  letter  of  unprofitable  commentary  on  life 


238  HERSELF 

was  despatched.  Characteristically,  the  real  anxiety 
stood  first,  for  Harrie  never  "  composed "  her  let- 
ters —  a  thing  of  which  her  "  correspondante,"  it 
must  be  owned,  was  guilty. 

"  What  am  I  to  think  of  Patrick4? "  she  began. 
"  Here  he  writes  to  me  to  say  he  is  taking  a  holiday, 
because  he  has  been  ill.  From  what  you  know  of 
schools,  do  you  think  it  is  true  they  would  let  him? 
I  am  enquiring  to  find  out,  for  I  know  they  do  have 
a  great  long  holiday  over  here,  in  some  places  in  the 
springtime.  But  that  would  be  Easter,  would  it 
not?  And  now  it  is  not  even  the  Mi-careme.  I 
should  be  so  vexed,  if  he  betrayed  his  employer  for 
me. 

"  I  am  troubled  about  the  illness  too,  if  it  is  the 
truth  he  is  telling.  He  says  there  is  a  doctor  at 
Oxford  he  might  visit  —  well,  to  be  sure  there  are 
several,  and  would  be  in  any  town.  If  it's  that 
cough  he  once  talked  of,  Oxford  is  surely  not  the 
place  to  come  for  it,  for  this  is  a  climate  like  a 
swamp.  I  am  wondering,  sir,  if  he  has  written  any- 
thing about  this  to  you  as  well,  for  Brian  was  always 
free  with  his  letters  when  he  had  some  complaints  to 
make.  Yet  Brian  was  strong,  and  Patrick  has  never 
been  that.  By  which  I  mean,  those  that  are  born 
delicate  complain  more  rarely,  and  so  are  the  harder 
to  help." 

That  was  the  first  day's  contribution,   and  the 


FAROVER 

writer  was  so  worried  that  she  very  nearly  posted  it. 
However,  a  night's  rest  made  her  think  better  of  it, 
and  she  waited  to  add  some  information. 

"  Farover  is  well-named,"  she  proceeded,  "  for  it 
is  very  lofty.  By  that  I  do  not  mean  that  the  roof 
is  high,  only  that  you  cannot  help  feeling  at  the  top 
of  things,  safe  and  surprised  at  anybody  troubling. 
I  am  surprised  at  myself  when  I  get  into  the  mood. 
A  bow-shot  from  the  brown  gate  there  is  the 
Parsonage,  and  there's  trouble  there  again.  I 
thought  the  lady  Mrs.  Grayling  a  hard  woman  but 
it  seems  she  is  kind  to  Bertha,  and  harassed  with 
the  child.  Her  husband  is  the  clergyman,  and  came 
to  see  me  thinking  to  have  me  for  his  church. 
I  was  sorry  to  tell  him  I  could  not,  for  it  seemed 
no  way  to  make  acquaintance.  Indeed,  he  seems 
to  have  forgotten  I  exist  since  then,  and  never  notices 
me. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Escreet  I  have  collected  on  the 
chance,  for  they  seem  to  be  wonderful  people.  I 
have  no  doubt  she  is  in  Brian's  collection  as  it  is, 
remembering  the  way  he  would  speak  of  her  beauty, 
so  I  have  her  by  inheritance.  She's  difficult  too,  as 
we  say  in  France:  she  will  not  have  a  stick  out  of 
place,  in  the  house  or  garden,  and  she  does  not  like 
remarks.  Mr.  Escreet  is  very  clever,  writing  books 
like  you  for  his  pleasure.  He  is  more  disorderly 
even  than  Brian,  though  he  has  the  most  expensive 


240  HERSELF 

arrangements.  I  cannot  get  his  papers  straight,  and 
he  is  forever  finding  new  ones." 

Here  the  letter-writer  paused  again,  and  started 
anew  later  with  apology. 

"  I  cannot  get  this  letter  written,  and  I  want  you 
to  know  them  all  at  least  a  little.  There  is  Hester, 
and  the  cook,  and  John,  who  have  all  done  things 
for  me  since  I  came.  Hester  is  quiet  company,  but 
you  should  see  the  work  she  does  —  I  mean  with  the 
needle.  I  told  her  I  had  been  misled  as  to  English 
sewing,  believing  they  never  stirred  a  finger  over 
there  without  machines.  I  shall  have  her  to  make 
some  things  for  me  —  but  why  am  I  talking  of  this*? 
The  footman  John  has  made  her  offers  for  years  past, 
it  seems,  and  she  refusing  him  steadily.  I  should 
think  he  might  go  on  to  the  end  of  time,  to  judge 
by  his  mechanical  appearance.  Yet  it  is  a  pity  she 
will  not  think  of  it,  for  the  Farover  lodge  they 
would  have  is  a  little  dear  house,  where  anyone 
could  be  happy.  I  like  these  English  house-servants, 
though  I  really  do  not  see  how  they  find  enough  to 
do. 

"  Beyond  these  there  is  Miss  Maskery,  who  comes 
for  singing  on  Wednesdays,  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Champion,  who  comes  to  see  her.  At  least  Mrs. 
Escreet  will  have  it  that  it  is  only  by  chance  he 
comes  to  tea,  but  it  becomes  a  queer  chance, 
wouldn't  you  say,  when  it  has  happened  twice  in 


FAROVER  841 

succession?  I  laughed  when  I  first  saw  Mr.  Tom. 
Though  it  was  rude  enough  I  could  not  help  it,  for 
it  came  back  to  me  something  Madame  Barriere  once 
said  about  him,  in  the  days  when  they  thought  of 
me  for  a  governess  in  his  mother's  house.  You  can 
often  save  up  a  laugh  even  when  you  do  not  feel 
like  it  at  the  time:  and  poor  Mr.  Tom,  standing 
surprised,  had  the  benefit. 

"  The  odd  thing  is  that  Miss  Maskery  is  trying 
now  for  the  post  I  missed,  and  as  Mrs.  Escreet  con- 
siders, likely  to  get  it,  for  the  woman  they  have  is  a 
failure.  Risings  Park  is  a  bigger  house  even  than 
Farover  —  what  would  I  have  done  there?  I 
should  have  been  lost  in  it  entirely.  Yet  I  would 
sooner  now  have  that  work  with  children  than  what 
I  have  taken,  though  I  am  shy  to  repeat  it  to  my 
employers.  It  takes  you  up  more,  and  saves  consid- 
ering. A  little  child  comforts  your  heart,  the  way  it 
puts  its  claim  upon  you,  when  your  mind  is  in  other 
things." 

She  added  up  the  side,  as  though  an  afterthought : 
"  These  two,  Mr.  Tom  and  Miss  Rose,  I  have  not 
collected.     For  though  I  have  talked  to  both,  I  do 
not  seem  to  know  them  much." 


AMONG  the  varied  and  irregular  small  duties 
required  of  her,  Harriet  discovered  that  she  had 
frequently  to  see  visitors  for  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  who  possessed  a  special  hiding-place  of  her 
own  in  what  she  carelessly  called  her  "  shed  "  in  the 
garden.  Harrie  had  generally  to  judge  —  with 
Hester's  experienced  help  —  which  visitor  might  on 
no  account  be  allowed  to  suspect  Winifred  was  in 
reach  of  a  call,  and  which  she  would  be  decidedly 
vexed  to  miss.  One  of  those,  however,  who  pre- 
sented no  difficulty  in  the  matter  of  this  choice,  was 
Mrs.  Grayling;  for  Mrs.  Escreet  always  blessed  any 
agent  of  fate  who  relieved  her  of  the  Vicar's  wife. 

"  Plush  in  the  avenue,"  announced  Gervase,  who 
was  gardening,  in  the  deliberately  disreputable 
undress  from  which,  when  he  wore  it  in  full  sun- 
light, Harriet  could  hardly  turn  her  eyes.  It 
amazed  her  in  the  "  smart "  man  he  was,  that  he 
could  appear  before  his  wife,  that  merciless  critic 
of  exteriors,  in  such  harlequin  guise,  and  without 
rebuke. 


FAROVER  243 

"  I  have  sighted  plush,"  said  Gervase,  peering  into 
the  shed  as  he  flitted  past.  "  Run,  Harri-et,  and 
protect  us."  For  the  Escreets  had  soon  decided  to 
adopt  her  christened  name,  as  the  recurrence  of  the 
Clench,  not  to  mention  the  Miss,  annoyed  their 
fastidious  ears.  They  agreed  in  so  doing  that  "  the 
mother"  had  better  have  called  her  Jane  at  once; 
and  Mr.  Escreet  frequently  used,  in  pronouncing 
the  name,  a  comic  emphasis. 

"  Tell  her  that  up  to  a  guinea  I'll  subscribe,"  said 
Winifred,  as  Harrie  rose  obedient,  "  to  whatever  it 
happens  to  be.  But  I  will  not  open  anything,  or 
address  anybody:  and  I  decline  to  hear  the  school- 
children sing." 

So  Harriet  went,  certain  in  advance  that  her 
appearance  would  not  be  welcome  to  the  visitor. 
Nor  was  it  evidently,  though  Mrs.  Grayling  had 
the  professional  manner  of  being  pleased  to  meet 
her. 

"  I  did  want  to  catch  Mrs.  Escreet  herself  if 
possible,"  she  said,  plunging  awkwardly  into  affairs, 
and  neglecting  any  previous  acquaintance  with  the 
girl  before  her. 

"  She  will  be  sorry,"  said  Harrie,  who  inherited 
from  her  father  a  useful  talent  of  lying  convincingly. 
"  This  weather  it  is  tempting  to  be  out-of-doors." 

Mrs.  Grayling  sighed,  whether  at  the  remark  or 
her  own  thoughts,  sitting  heavily  upon  an  uncom- 


HERSELF 

fortable  chair.  Then,  recollecting  herself,  she 
smiled  brightly. 

"  I  should  be  thankful,  I  suppose,  to  have  got  so 
far,"  she  said.  "  I  really  think  it  ought  to  be  a  very 
good  programme." 

"A  soiree?"  said  Harrie  at  a  venture:  then 
corrected  herself;  "  a  village  entertainment?  " 

"  Our  Concert,"  explained  Mrs.  Grayling,  in  an 
undertone,  "  for  the  Restoration." 

"  Oh,"  murmured  Harrie,  rightly  concluding  by 
the  tone  that  the  ugly  little  church  was  in  question. 
She  felt  a  shyness  of  further  enquiry  on  the  sacred 
subject,  for  the  Vicar's  wife's  piercing  eyes  were 
looking  through  her  sadly.  She  felt  the  church  was 
not  considered  her  concern  —  that  she  was,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Vicarage,  entirely  unworthy  of  living 
in  its  neighborhood. 

"  Well,"  said  Harrie,  to  brighten  matters  up,  for 
the  atmosphere  of  plush  jacket  was  depressing,  "  and 
it's  the  music  you  want,  or  the  money?  " 

This  was  the  cheerful  way  in  which  Miss  Clench 
habitually  did  business;  yet,  though  there  was  noth- 
ing impolite  in  her  manner,  it  made  Mrs.  Grayling 
visibly  shrink. 

"The  parish  lends  the  room,"  she  explained  in 
the  same  low  tone.  "  The  profits,  I  hope,  will  easily 
cover  the  gas.  Programmes,  if  the  curate  announces, 
are  unnecessary."  She  cleared  her  voice,  and  gath- 


FAROVER  245 

ered  the  plush  jacket  a  little  higher  round  her  thin 
throat.  "  I  hope  myself  to  accompany,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  should  like  there  to  be  a  second  string  if  I 
failed." 

"  But  you  mustn't  think  of  it,"  cried  Harrie.  "  I 
am  sure  you  will  have  plenty  as  it  is,  receiving  all 
the  people."  She  moved  the  rocking-chair  invit- 
ingly, but  Mrs.  Grayling,  with  the  same  bright 
mechanical  smile,  shook  her  head. 

"So  it  was  Mrs.  Escreet  you  wanted  to  come  and 
accompany,"  said  Miss  Clench,  pushing  forward  the 
business  another  stage. 

"Oh,  never!"  Mrs.  Grayling  started.  "How 
could  you  imagine  I  would  ask  for  that*?  If  Mrs. 
Escreet  were  so  wonderfully  kind  as  to  play  once, 
and  to  let  Rosie  Maskery  sing  just  one  of  her  lighter 
songs.  Rosie  will  not  promise,  I  know,  without 
her  permission,  when  she  has  been  so  kind  in  train- 
ing her.  That  is  what  I  wished  to  ask  —  if  she 
would  mind." 

"  I  am  sure  not,"  said  Harrie.  "  I  will  let  you 
know  to-day." 

"  Thank  you  —  thank  you.  With  that  I  am  sure 
we  should  be  quite  safe,  and  they  would  all  be  so 
delighted.  As  luck  would  have  it,  I  find  my  govern- 
ess is  a  wonderful  musician,  and  ready  to  help  us." 
It  was  clear  that  in  the  distraction  of  parochial  mat- 
ters, Mrs.  Grayling  had  forgotten  the  connection 


246  HERSELF 

between  Mrs.  Escreet's  companion,  and  her  govern- 
ess; or  else  she  had  prepared  the  whole  speech 
beforehand  for  Winifred's  ears,  and  it  would  not 
bear  re-arranging. 

"  You  know  that  probably,"  she  added,  recollect- 
ing with  a  new  effort  the  connection  of  the  pair. 
"  You  know  Miss  Lindt." 

"  Miss  Lindt'll  play  all  night  unless  you  stop 
her,"  said  Harrie,  smiling.  "  That'll  be  the  trouble: 
but  I'll  manage  it.  I  am  used  to  her.  I  suppose  I 
may  come  to  help*? " 

"  Why  yes,  to  be  sure  —  I  ought  to  have  asked 
you.  But  I  supposed  —  if  Mrs.  Escreet  came " 

"  I'm  her  shadow,"  laughed  Harrie.  "  Oh  dear, 
I  do  wish  you'd  rest  in  the  rocking-chair.  It's 
fidgeting  here  for  an  occupant."  Mrs.  Grayling, 
after  a  moment's  stiff  pause,  did  as  she  was  requested. 
Harrie  thought  she  had  never  seen  anyone  look  so 
tired.  "  As  for  accompanying,"  she  proceeded,  "  I 
am  really  quite  fit  for  it  myself,  if  you  like  a  change." 

"  Oh  —  if  Mrs.  Escreet  would  let  you  —  that 
— — —  " 

"  If  she'd  let  me,"  agreed  Harriet  demurely. 
"  Would  I  have  to  ask  her*?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Grayling,  somewhat  disturbed 
to  be  applied  to,  "I  should  think  you  know  best.  I 
have  no  idea  —  she  is  most  kind  —  " 

"  Most  kind,"  Harrie  thought,  "  on  all  hands,  I 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R 

notice;  but  how  she  rides  on  these  people,  all  the 
same."  She  was  silent,  considering;  leaning  forward 
with  her  fingers  clasped,  and  her  elbows  on  her  knee. 

"  Are  you  not  used,"  said  Mrs.  Grayling,  "  to 
being  a  companion"?  " 

"  No,"  said  Harriet.    "  I'd  sooner  be  a  friend." 

Again  she  took  the  Vicar's  wife  aback  by  her 
directness. 

"I'm  not  complaining,"  added  Miss  Clench, 
"  only  there  are  some  things  I  can't  be,  and  I  believe 
companion's  one  of  them.  You  would  not  believe 
it,  I  suppose,  if  I  said  I  envied  Bertha  down  with 
you." 

"  Why  should  I  not  believe  it*?  "  said  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling quickly.  She  was  a  sincere  woman,  and  her 
spirit  sprang  to  meet  a  straight  statement.  Experi- 
ence of  the  poorer  classes  does  not  lead  one  to  suspect 
bluntness :  rather  to  catch  at  it  among  the  vast  social 
tissues  of  pretence. 

"  There's  nothing  to  do  here,"  explained  Harrie, 
gripping  her  fine  little  fingers  together.  "  And  Mrs. 
Escreet  wants  no  one  to  help  her.  A  clever  servant 
could  do  what  I  do  in  her  odd  hours;  and  everyone 
here  has  time  to  spare.  It's  just  the  fact  I'm  telling 
you,"  she  added  lightly,  "not  that  I'm  anyway 
unhappy." 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  were,"  said  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling. She  frowned  a  little,  for  she  had  never  met  a 


248  HERSELF 

case  quite  like  this  before.  Her  husband  of  course 
would  say  the  girl  was  no  affair  of  hers :  and  she  en- 
deavored to  think  as  he  did.  "  Many  people  would 
envy  you,"  she  went  on,  still  in  the  manner  of  in- 
struction or  reproof.  "  Nor  do  I  think  Miss  Lindt 
finds  us  at  all  easy  at  the  Vicarage.  Muriel  alone 
"  Her  voice  broke  and  she  swallowed  some- 
thing. 

"  You're  anxious  about  her,"  said  Harrie,  having 
left  a  little  pause.  She  had  met  Bertha  once,  and 
knew  more  about  the  Vicarage  skeleton  than  Mrs. 
Grayling  thought:  for  Bertha,  though  unobservant, 
was  by  no  means  imperceptive. 

"  Anxious?  "  Then  she  had  it  all.  Either  there 
was  something  in  the  soft  beam  of  her  eyes,  as 
straight  as  Mrs.  Grayling's  in  their  glance;  or  the 
poor  woman  herself  was  overwrought,  and  the  break- 
ing-point came  upon  her  at  the  wrong  moment,  be- 
fore she  was  aware.  She  only  conquered  hysteria  by 
a  mighty  effort,  which  Harriet  perceived.  The 
trouble  itself  was  no  uncommon  one,  concerning 
mainly  a  didactic,  unsympathetic  father,  and  a 
rebellious  child. 

"  Muriel's  taken  to  you,  I  don't  know  why,"  she 
said,  and  repeated  in  her  distraction  more  than  once. 
"  I  don't  know  if  you  can  do  anything.  She  has 
asked  about  you  at  dinner  till  —  till  her  father  lost 
his  temper.  I  am  always  afraid  her  father  will  be 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  349 

rough  with  her  —  she  takes  after  him  in  some  ways : 
and  I  can't  do  more  than  I  do,  I  really  can't."  Again 
for  a  time  she  could  not  speak.  "  She  sets  all  the 
village  against  us  by  her  untruths.  She  will  take 
no  teaching,  least  of  all  religious.  She  uses  dreadful 
words  —  she  won't  think  of  confirmation  —  she 
denies  the  faith." 

Harriet  did  not  smile.  "  Does  she  think  she  has 
another?  "  she  said. 

"  Of  course  not  —  at  twelve  —  heaven  knows 
what  she  thinks,  nor  where  she  gets  it  from.  I  only 
know  she  is  naughty  —  often  a  wicked  girl.  And 
yet  she  is  my  child,  and  I  cannot  tell  her  so  —  I  try 
to  be  patient."  Mrs.  Grayling  wiped  her  brow  — 
not  her  eyes  —  with  a  clean,  coarse  handkerchief, 
and  tried  to  calm  her  desperate  agitation.  "  I  really 
have  so  little  time,"  she  said,  in  nearly  her  ordinary 
tone. 

"To  be  sure  you  haven't,"  said  Miss  Clench 
thoughtfully.  "  And  is  Bertha  no  use  to  you 
either?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  she  is,"  said  the  poor  mother  eagerly, 
"  and  I  ought  to  be  thankful  to  have  Miss  Lindt. 
She  seems,  to  manage  the  child  in  the  mornings, 
though  sometimes  they  make  a  great  noise  together. 
Muriel  is  even  interested,  and  repeats  what  she  says 
after  lessons." 

"  You  have  her  in  the  afternoon?  " 


250  HERSELF 

"  While  Miss  Lindt  practises,  that  is  all.  I  like 
to  have  her  —  often."  She  smiled  that  glassy  bright 
smile  again,  that  made  Harrie  furious  with  pity,  as 
towards  a  suffering  animal.  Something  told  her 
quick  instinct  that  one  who  so  smiled  was  almost 
breaking.  She  asked  for  no  further  history,  no  more 
tags  and  rags  of  awkward  evidence,  no  further 
popular  opinion  even.  The  "  person  "  —  the  pres- 
ence of  the  human  creature  revealed  this  crying  need 
to  her,  and  she  took  the  origin  of  the  need  on  trust. 

"  I  have  myself,"  she  observed,  "  an  hour  all  of 
my  own  in  the  afternoon.  I  asked  and  was  given  it 
before  I  ever  came,  and  meant  to  find  somebody  to 
walk  with  me.  Will  you  let  me  have  Muriel  — 
will  you  let  her  come  and  fetch  me?  It  is  just  what 
I  wanted  since  I  saw  her  that  night,  to  make  her 
acquaintance  properly." 

Mrs.  Grayling  looked  at  her  dumbly,  swallowing 
still. 

"  I  have  often  looked  after  little  girls,"  Harrie 
added,  after  waiting. 

Even  then  she  struggled  for  some  minutes.  "  I 
had  not  meant  to  ask  it,"  she  said. 

"Just  till  the  concert  is  over,  at  least,"  said 
Harrie.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  business.  Do  you 
think,"  she  added  gently,  "her  father  would 
mind?  " 

"I  shall  not  tell  him,"  said  the  woman  desper- 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R 

ately.  "  Anyhow  he  could  not  mind  for  an  hour. 
You  won't  let  her  be  —  silly  with  you?  Very 
well." 

And  she  went  her  ways,  taking  no  farewell,  offer- 
ing no  thanks,  and  clutching  the  plush  jacket  across 
her  thin  chest. 

Little  Miss  Clench,  at  once  puzzled  and  shocked, 
was  left  sitting  in  the  pretty  drawing-room,  conning 
her  newest  problem. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Escreet  at  lunch,  "  and  what 
was  the  damage*?  " 

Harrie  told  them  about  the  concert,  giving  heed 
to  her  words.  It  was  the  habit  of  the  Escreet  house- 
hold to  allude  even  to  your  dearest  interests  with 
amused  indifference,  and  she  was  trying  to  master 
the  manner  of  their  conversation. 

"And  did  you  promise  my  wife's  assistance?" 
said  Mr.  Escreet  jocularly. 

"  I  think  I  gave  it  to  understand  that  she  would," 
said  Harrie. 

They  gazed  at  her  blankly,  from  either  end  of  the 
table ;  and  then  the  husband  laughed  again. 

"  Well,  Win,  you're  in  for  it,"  he  said,  leaning 
back  to  wipe  his  mouth.  "  The  parish-room  piano, 
I  presume.  I'll  pay  my  threepence  to  come  and 
hear." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Harrie,  rather  dismayed.     "  I 


252  HERSELF 

thought  you  would  always  have  done  it  for  them, 
perhaps." 

This  made  things  no  better.  "  I  can  still  refuse," 
said  Winifred  coldly.  "  It  only  wastes  a  little  time. 
No  doubt  Mrs.  Grayling  made  it  seem  as  if  I  had 
always  done  it." 

"  I  thought  for  certain  you  were  interested  in  the 
Restoration,"  said  Harrie. 

"  They  are  going  to  restore  to  its  pristine  vulgar- 
ity the  decoration  their  ancestors  had  the  taste  to 
cover  up,"  said  Gervase;  but  he  answered  at  random 
without  conviction,  watching  Winifred. 

"  The  tenpenny  restoration,"  she  exclaimed.  "  A 
thing  she  knows  we  have  both  discouraged  from  the 
outset.  No,  really,  Gervase;  she  is  an  extraordinary 
woman." 

"  It  must  be  her  own  thought,"  said  Gervase. 
"  She  and  the  curate  between  them.  Grayling  would 
never  have  done  it." 

"  She  must  know  I  have  refused  for  years,  even  at 
the  Champions'.  And  trotting  up  in  the  plush  coat 
to  ask  me  —  I  have  a  mind,  Gervase,  to  refuse  for 
Rosie  too.  Her  style  is  really  above  such  nonsense. 
Let  the  curate  sing  to  them,  he  knows  it's  a  part  of 
his  duties.  You  did  not  hear  of  anyone  else?" 
She  turned  to  Harrie. 

"  Helping,  do  you  mean?  She  spoke  of  Fraiilein 
Lindt,  who  is  willing  to  play." 


FAROVER 

"That's  the  governess,"  said  Winifred  to  Ger- 
vase.  "  Oh  no,  dear,  it's  clear  I  can't." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  play  the  trombone  for 
them,  Harri-et,"  said  Gervase,  peeling  an  orange 
with  exquisite  attention. 

"  I  said  I  would  accompany,  if  they  wanted  it," 
said  Miss  Clench,  with  humorously  lifted  brows. 
She  seemed  to  have  done  very  completely  the  wrong 
thing  this  morning. 

"Why  not  sing4?"  said  Gervase.  "They  like 
singing  better.  A  Parisian  chansonnette,  now  —  one 
or  two."  He  jerked  his  orange-skin  aside.  "A 
short  skirt,  and  some  little  frills  beneath  it  —  " 

"  Don't  be  stupid,  Gervase,"  said  his  wife  rather 
sharply.  "  It's  rather  an  annoying  affair,  to  tell  the 
truth.  You  had  better  take  a  note  down  this  after- 
noon, Harriet,  if  you  are  going  in  that  direction." 

Harrie  did  so;  and  then  took  the  rapturous 
Muriel  for  a  country  walk.  With  her  experience  of 
school-girls,  she  knew  well  the  signs  of  a  "  grande 
passion  "  in  a  precocious  child  of  twelve,  and  the 
extreme  dry  delicacy  with  which  it  must  be  treated. 
She  laughed  at  Muriel  a  very  little,  but  she  was  too 
healthy  and  simple  to  act  the  idol-governess  long. 
She  found  that  the  child,  very  clever  and  emotional, 
as  she  had  perceived  at  their  first  meeting,  wanted 
chiefly  to  be  listened  to,  without  the  parental  hand 


254  HERSELF 

on  her  mouth  at  every  third  word.  Earnest  parents 
do  not  always  remember  that  words  have  a  value 
simply  as  words  to  children  making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  their  language,  quite  apart  from  the  mean- 
ing which  that  learning  and  experience  have  at- 
tached to  them.  Words  and  tags  of  speech,  smart 
cynical  phrases,  anything  that  was  sounding  and  vig- 
orous, heard,  read,  or  invented,  poured  from  Muriel, 
who  was  as  sure  as  Jonah  or  Jeanne  d'Arc,  that  she 
had  a  mission  to  save  the  world.  She  was  the  surer 
her  words  were  of  value,  that  they  so  obviously 
had  the  power  to  hurt,  anger,  and  alarm  the  people 
placed  by  fate  for  her  direction.  She  had  begun 
lately  to  have  an  inkling  that  she  was  a  little  savage 
—  a  little  Satan  —  and  the  idea  had  its  power  of 
elation. 

Harrie  let  the  child  romance  and  rhapsodize,  ar- 
gue and  complain,  until  the  physical  fever  in  her 
naturally  abated,  and  the  stock  of  defiance  ran  out. 
A  lack  of  breath  aided  the  process,  for  there  was  a 
lively  north-easterly  breeze,  and  Miss  Clench  walked 
quickly.  She  chased  Muriel,  and  was  chased  in  re- 
turn, till  both  were  tired,  and  glad  to  walk  and  talk 
more  quietly.  She  gathered  from  what  Muriel  had 
said,  that  the  blunderer  Fraiilein  Lindt,  full  of  deli- 
cate instincts  in  things  of  moment,  had  already 
adopted  the  method  of  reason  with  some  success; 
and  she  had  the  wisdom  to  talk  to  Muriel  of  Fraiilein 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  255 

Lindt  as  a  person  whom  she  respected  —  whom  she, 
Muriel's  transitory  goddess,  loved.  Long  before 
they  reached  home  they  were  talking  mixed  sense 
and  nonsense  in  the  way  imaginative  children  prefer, 
and  Muriel  the  savage  was  showing  remarkable 
sanity.  Harrie  easily  discovered  a  fact  the  child 
thought  she  never  allowed  to  be  seen,  her  adoration 
—  a  kind  of  pitying  worship  —  for  her  mother.  For 
twelve  years  old,  at  its  most  satanic,  is  not  a  hard 
age  to  see  through.  Harrie  left  her  with  a  jest  at 
the  Vicarage  gate. 

"  Have  I  been  good?  "  said  Muriel,  eager  as  any 
baby. 

"  Very,"  laughed  Harrie.  "  Walking's  made  me 
feel  so  nice  inside.  We  will  do  it  again." 

"To-morrow?" 

"  Not  to-morrow,  for  I'm  to  go  to  Oxford." 

"  Oh,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  scowl.  "  It's  a  silly 
place  —  dashed  silly." 

"  Do  not  dash  it,"  said  Harrie,  "  till  I  have  made 
up  my  mind.  I'll  tell  you  on  Friday  what  I  think. 
Shall  I?" 

"  Yes,  dearest.    Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Harrie,  taking  the  rough  little 
hand.  "  Poor  little  collectable." 

But  that  was  added  internally,  as  she  walked  on 
up  the  road.  By  the  time  she  reached  Farover  gate, 
Muriel  was  already  at  tea  —  boasting. 


256  HERSELF 

Gervase,  who  could  never  wait  for  his  tea  beyond 
four  o'clock,  had  been  enjoying  an  undisturbed  hour 
of  Winifred's  society.  Usually  they  talked  little 
at  this  sacred  hour,  but  Gervase  had  a  curious  expe- 
rience to  relate:  so  really  interesting,  that  his  wife 
listened  with  only  very  slight  interruption. 

Mr.  Escreet  had  been  in  Oxford  the  day  before, 
and  had  been  stopped  by  a  man  in  the  road.  The 
man  —  a  perfect  ragamuffin  he  described  him  — 
was  sketching  in  a  corner  of  Brasenose  Lane,  as  he 
and  a  friend  issued  from  the  Camera.  The  friend, 
whose  way  diverged  from  his,  was  parting  with  him 
near  the  corner  of  the  narrow  way:  but  diverted  to 
say,  "Look  at  this,  Escreet,"  in  condescending  allu- 
sion to  the  young  man's  sketch,  which  was  a  clever 
rendering  of  some  details  on  St.  Mary's.  Gervase, 
having  glanced,  was  just  departing  on  his  own 
account,  when  the  youth  addressed  him  by  name. 

11  By  name4?  "  his  wife  ejaculated. 

"  He  had  caught  it,  of  course.  But  he  had  evi- 
dently also  heard  it  before." 

"  How  very  odd,"  said  Winifred. 

"  Not  so  very,"  he  retorted.  "  However,  the 
youngster  was  not  on  to  my  literary  reputation.  In- 
deed, Winifred,  in  so  far  as  regards  myself,  I  was 
not  of  the  smallest  interest  to  him." 

Their  glances  collided,  and  as  usual,  mind  fol- 
lowed eyes. 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  257 

"Gervase —  you  never  mean  —  you  don't  think 
it  was  the  man?  " 

"  I  don't  think  at  all.  I  am  practically  sure  of  it. 
He  was  after  her,  as  keen  as  a  leopard  on  the  trail. 
He  was  not  unlike  a  leopard,"  said  Gervase. 

"Handsome?" 

"Of  course:  handsome  and  insinuating.  Aren't 
they  always?  " 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Morough,  the  name  is :  Irish  I  gather :  respect- 
able," said  Gervase,  "  I  should  not  surmise.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  Winifred,  oh  my  wife,  we  are  going  to 
be  lugged  into  the  plot  of  a  second-rate  romance.  I 
only  hope  it  costs  as  much  as  sixpence  on  a  book- 
stall.' " 

"  Did  you  give  him  our  address?  " 

"No,  my  child:  he  knew  it.  He  quite  expected 
to  be  asked  to  dinner,  and  it  was  only  with  an  effort 
I  refrained.  His  shirt  was  really  too  unclean,  and 
his  tie  ragged.  He  is  staying  at  Abingdon,  so  he 
said." 

"  Abingdon?  That's  nearer  than  Oxford.  If  he 
comes,  what  on  earth  are  we  to  do?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Gervase,  "  leave  her  to  manage  it,  I 
should  say.  She  has  the  most  experience.  Give  the 
little  creature  rope  —  she  won't  hang  herself." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  Well  —  her  neck's  too  pretty." 


258  HERSELF 

Winifred  was  silent  for  a  period.  "  We  dine  with 
the  Champions  to-morrow  night,"  she  said. 

"  What's  that  to  do  with  it*?  Oh,  you  mean  — 
suppose  he  came  then.  Isn't  our  secretary  coming 
with  us?" 

"  You  know  it's  impossible  —  to  the  Champions 
of  all  people.  I  never  even  proposed  it." 

"  Ha,"  said  Gervase.  "  You  will  have  to  clear 
yourself  of  collusion,  with  our  dear  Cousin  Grace." 

"  I  shall  not  allude  to  it,  unless  she  does.  She 
knows  the  girl  is  here,  through  Tom." 

Not  long  afterwards  "  the  girl  "  came  in,  notice- 
ably pretty  and  collected,  the  serenity  of  wide 
country  places  in  her  gray-blue  eyes.  She  wore  the 
very  same  white-winged  hat  of  a  year  before,  for 
Harriet  did  not  change  her  best  hat  often.  And 
what  was  more,  the  hat  could  still  be  counted  upon 
to  make  its  effect;  for  though  Winifred's  keen  eye 
marked  in  full  daylight  the  signs  of  time,  Gervase 
admired  it  greatly. 

Taking  her  tea  with  her  inexpressibly  dainty 
gesture,  seated  in  a  very  large  chair,  she  talked  to 
them  casually,  and  they  answered  at  random,  view- 
ing her  with  new  eyes.  It  was  Harrie  herself  who 
reminded  them  of  the  plan  to  visit  Oxford  on  the 
morrow;  which,  though  Gervase  had  originally  pro- 
posed it,  both  had  forgotten. 


FAROVER  259 

"Kismet,"  he  said  lightly  to  Winifred  later. 
"  Well,  it's  ten  chances  to  one  she  will  not  meet  him. 
I  will  get  Ann  and  Rosaline  to  ask  her  to  lunch,  when 
I  have  shown  her  about  sufficiently.  One  of  them 
will  take  her  to  the  train." 

"  Yes,  that  will  do,"  said  Winifred,  who  did  not 
want  to  go  to  Oxford,  as  it  would  only  remind  her 
of  several  calls  she  owed.  "  That  is  quite  a  good 
notion.  Ann  is  perfectly  safe." 


VI 


HARRIET'S  impressions  of  Oxford  were  recorded 
later  for  Geoff ry  Horn;  and  since  he  never  dis- 
closed them,  we  cannot  present  them  to  the  reader. 
She  made  little  remark  at  the  time,  as  Mr.  Escreet, 
delighted  to  have  her  in  his  sole  charge,  trotted  her 
round  its  more  famous  buildings,  in  and  out,  from 
point  to  point,  patronizing  humorously  the  principal 
effects  in  turn. 

"  This  is  reckoned  good,"  was  his  favorite  phrase, 
mock-modest  in  the  Escreet  fashion,  but  only  just 
concealing  infinite  criticism  in  reserve.  His  manner 
would  have  discouraged  "  raving "  in  the  average 
American-born  female  —  but  Miss  Clench,  it 
seemed,  was  not  inclined  to  rave.  She  was  indefat- 
igable in  following  him,  though  his  manner  of  guid- 
ance was  eccentric,  and  often  wasteful;  she  studied 
the  "  good "  things  indicated  very  dutifully,  and 
said  a  few  approving  things. 

"  It's  not  as  hopeless  as  Versailles,  anyway,"  was 
one  of  the  remarks  she  made,  having  taken  a  good 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  261 

draught  of  the  tower-views  from  various  points  of 
Christchurch  Meadow. 

"  How  would  you  improve  it?  "  said  the  artist  at 
her  side  with  curiosity. 

"  Oh,"  said  Harriet  absently,  "  that's  not  what  I 


mean." 


"  Then  what  do  you  mean?  "  Mr.  Escreet  pressed 
her. 

r^  Well  —  there's  some  business  in  its  beauty,"  she 
said,  and  laughed. 

She  seemed  in  good  spirits,  shut  within  her  private 
little  court  of  judgment:  but  she  would  not  further 
explain,  and  they  went  off  very  soon  to  explore  the 
chapels. 

When  it  came  to  interiors,  Mr.  Escreet  could  con- 
ceal his  knowledge  less  successfully;  and  in  the 
schools  and  the  libraries,  spurred  by  her  quick  ques- 
tions, he  let  her  have  it.  Oddly  enough  it  had  never 
struck  him  before,  and  now  only  occurred  to  him 
gradually,  that  she  was  a  clever  girl.  Cleverness, 
he  informed  Winifred  afterwards,  exhibits  itself  less 
in  enlarging  upon  what  you  know,  than  in  your  man- 
ner of  betraying  what  you  do  not  know.  Harriet 
did  not  know  most  things,  in  the  matter  of  English 
history  and  archaeology;  but  her  method  of  inform- 
ing herself  impressed  him  more  than  Rosaline  Mask- 
ery's  easy  store  of  school-knowledge.  "  She  bit  the 
right  way,"  said  Gervase.  "She  has  good  little 


262  HERSELF 

teeth,  and  likes  the  taste.  Most  people  gulp  with- 
out enjoyment  —  or  chew  the  cud." 

At  one-thirty,  Mr.  Escreet  had  to  leave  her,  but 
he  had  adopted  by  then  such  a  manner  of  admiring 
protection,  that  it  was  quite  difficult  for  Harrie  to 
get  free  of  him. 

"  Where  do  the  Miss  Maskerys  live?  "  she  asked, 
stopping. 

"  In  a  little  house  up  the  Iffley  Road."  He  gave 
the  number.  "  Can  you  discover  it  by  yourself?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  can  count,"  laughed  Harriet. 
"  But  the  arrangement  is,  she's  to  meet  me  at  a 
shop." 

"  Ann?    You  have  not  seen  Ann  yet,  have  you?  " 

"  Not  Miss  Ann.  She's  working,  and  wants  the 
house  to  herself."  Gervase  raised  his  brows,  but 
Harriet  was  quite  easy.  "  She  works  a  good  deal,  I 
understand.  It's  the  other  one  is  to  meet  me,  and 
I  know  the  place.  I  noticed  it  in  passing." 

Mr.  Escreet  had  unwillingly  to  admit  that  she 
was  capable,  and  to  let  her  go. 

"  You  will  be  back  to  tea,"  he  cried  in  her  wake. 

"  I'll  see,"  said  Harriet  cheerfully.  She  was  an 
independent  atom.  Gervase  looked  after  her  pretty 
little  figure,  till  it  whisked  round  a  corner  and  dis- 
appointed him. 

Rosaline  met  Harriet  in  the  mood  in  which  a 


FAROVER  263 

girl  performs  a  somewhat  tiresome  social  duty; 
that  is,  with  a  manner  of  unmeaning,  overflowing 
liveliness.  Miss  Clench,  to  tell  the  truth,  felt  some- 
what as  she  did,  and  would  have  been  much  happier 
alone,  but  she  acted  considerably  better.  She  was 
quiet,  at  least,  and  not,  like  Miss  Maskery,  nervously 
intimate.  It  is  hard  to  account  for  the  impulse  a 
girl  has  to  let  out  her  personal  confidence  upon  a 
companion  to  whom  she  is  completely  indifferent, 
and  whom  she  may  never  see  again.  Rosaline  would 
have  said  that  she  had  to  talk  about  something  dur- 
ing lunch-time;  and  having  no  interest  whatever  in 
Harriet's  affairs,  and  having  been  snubbed  all  the 
morning  by  her  busy  sister,  she  very  naturally  dwelt 
upon  her  own. 

She  replied  to  Harrie's  questions  about  Ann's 
work  very  carelessly,  and  was  soon  mounted  on  her 
own  tastes  and  grievances.  She  came,  by  sure  but 
crooked  ways,  to  Tom:  natural  enough,  no  doubt, 
since  Tom  had,  for  some  months  now,  been  all  Rosa- 
line's world,  and  all  her  dim  and  radiant  future. 
His  name  edged  in  constantly,  whatever  subject 
they  chanced  to  be  upon;  and  Harriet,  wondering 
greatly  at  her,  still  endeavored  to  be  sympathetic  in 
response. 

"  Does  she  want  me  to  know  she's  in  love$  "  the 
Irish  girl  asked  herself,  marveling,  as  the  so-called 
impulsive  and  excitable  nature  will  often  do,  at  the 


264  HERSELF 

careless  exposing  of  these  sanctuaries  by  the  type 
so-called  "  reserved." 

And,  without  doubt,  Rosaline  wanted  her  to 
know;  to  know  that  she  was  in  love:  that  she  was 
admired :  that  she  was  wanted  at  least  by  somebody : 
that  she  was  not  the  rather  over-dressed  little  "  odd 
woman  "  she  appeared  to  be,  in  these  latter  years 
during  which  she  had  grown  a  secret  burden  to  her- 
self. It  was  quite  pathetic,  really;  but  Miss  Clench 
was  as  yet  young  in  life,  and  too  strange  to  this  (to 
her)  foreign  type  to  sympathize  or  even  compre- 
hend. 

"  Do  you  like  Farover?  "  rattled  Rosaline.  "  Do 
you  play  tennis"?  Oh,  what  a  waste!  You'll 
excuse  me,  of  course,  but  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Tom  —  Mr.  Champion  —  says  they  are  the  best 
courts  for  miles  round,  and  he  ought  to  know." 

"  Is  he  a  great  player?  "  said  Harrie. 

"Goodness,  he's  a  'blue,'  didn't  you  know?" 
Harrie  was  entirely  ignorant  as  to  the  value  of  that 
color  in  the  sporting  world,  but  Miss  Maskery  did 
not  stay  to  explain.  "  He  and  I  were  partners  in 
the  tournament  last  year  at  Risings  —  such  a  sweet 
little  brooch  I  had.  Mr.  Escreet  is  very  good  too  — 
you  mean  you  don't  play  at  all?  " 

"  I've  played  now  and  then,"  explained  Harrie, 
"  on  a  mud  court  with  tape  pinned  down  for  the 
lines." 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  265 

"  Where  was  last?  In  France?  —  never!  They 
really  are^  aren't  they?  " 

"  I  should  have  said  they  were  not,"  said  Harrie. 
"  However :  when  can  I  get  a  chance  to  see  you  at 
it?" 

"  Not  till  May,"  said  Rosaline.  "  All  the  fun 
happens  in  May  here :  used  to,  that  is."  She  sighed. 

"  You've  a  pretty  pin,"  said  Harrie,  tactfully 
diverting. 

"  Tom  gave  me  that.  Naughty  of  him,  wasn't  it? 
But  he  pretended  it  was  a  philopena- forfeit.  Double 
almonds,  you  know." 

"I  know  there  is  a  game,"  said  Harrie.  "We 
did  it  with  the  babies  in  my  school." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Rosaline.  "  School,  was  it,  where 
you  were?  You  know  Paris,  don't  you?  Goodness, 
I  wish  I  was  you." 

This  popular  view  of  Paris  amused  Harriet,  and 
she  smiled. 

"What's  the  joke?  I  mean  it,  I  can  tell  you 
that.  I'd  give  anything  to  travel  and  see  things. 
Mrs.  Escreet  says  I  ought  to  go  to  Germany  to  study 
properly;  only  Tom,  who's  been  there,  says  it's 
beastly." 

"Are  you  going  to  sing  at  the  concert?"  said 
Harrie. 

"  Oh,  you  have  heard  of  that  business,  have  you?  " 
said  Rosaline.  "  Horrid  bore,  but  what  with  Auntie 


266  HERSELF 

bothering,  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  to.  I  would  do  it 
to  save  Mrs.  Escreet,  anyhow.  She's  so  splendid, 
and  patient  with  those  dull  people.  Isn't  she  a 
dear?" 

There  seemed  to  be  some  real  enthusiasm,  and 
Harrie  replied  to  it;  but  she  was  not  long  saved 
from  Tom.  Tom  came  in  again  on  the  subject  of 
the  concert ;  for  if  Rosaline  would  sing,  he  had  prom- 
ised to  recite. 

"  Comic,  you  know,"  said  Rosaline.  "  He  can't 
do  anything  well,  he  says,  but  play  the  fool." 

"  Isn't  he  clever*?  "  said  Harriet.  "  I  thought  he 
would  be  that,  educated  as  he's  been." 

"  My  dear  girl!  Do  you  mean  Oxford4?  Shows 
you  have  not  had  a  long  experience  of  it.  There  are 
heaps  that  are  perfect  donkeys  —  not  that  Tom's 
one.  He  got  a  very  good  third,  and  he  had  all  his 
athletics  as  well.  What's  against  Tom  is  really  his 
brother  —  Eustace." 

"  The  boy  at  Eton?  "  said  Harrie. 

"  Oh,  do  you  know  them?  "  A  rather  close  stare, 
in  the  course  of  which  Miss  Maskery  seemed  to  re- 
member. "  You  were  to  have  gone  to  Risings, 
weren't  you?  —  and  then  something  happened.  Er, 
well  —  Eustace  is  too  absurd.  He  gets  everything, 
one  of  those  boys.  He'd  be  up  at  college  now,  if  it 
wasn't  for  his  age.  He's  only  sixteen.  Of  course, 
all  that  is  hard  on  Tom." 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  267 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be,"  said  Harrie  gravely. 
"  But  isn't  he  proud  of  his  brother'?  " 

"  Proud  of  Eustace*?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Men 
are  not  like  that  in  England,  you  know.  I  mean, 
they  don't  show  their  feelings."  After  an  interval 
Miss  Maskery  said,  "  Tom's  not  jealous,  anyhow." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  he  has  the  estate,"  said  Miss 
Clench,  in  her  comical  little  manner  of  business. 

"  Oh,  he  will  have  Risings,  of  course,  when  his 
father  dies."  Here  Rosaline's  tone  took  on  careless- 
ness. "  It's  an  enormous  place,  Risings.  You  have 
not  seen  it?  " 

"  You'd  like  to  get  there,  wouldn't  you?  "  said 
Harrie.  "So  Mrs.  Escreet  said."  It  may  be  her 
deep-seated  mischief  had  formed  the  phrase;  in  any 
case  it  annoyed  Rosaline. 

"  Oh,  I  could  do  without  it,"  she  said  haughtily. 
"  The  Champion  children  are  such  dull  little  things; 
anyone  could  look  after  them." 

Rosaline  let  her  companion  pay  for  the  lunch, 
with  the  ease  of  a  spoilt  girl  to  whom  money  was 
important.  After  lunch  the  pair  walked  about  aim- 
lessly a  little,  and  parted  without  regret. 

"  You'll  catch  the  3.20,  I  suppose,"  said  Rosaline. 
"  Shall  I  show  you  the  way  to  the  station?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  can  find  it."  Harriet  considered, 
her  eyes  fixed  down  the  High  Street  with  a  slightly 


268  HERSELF 

amused  expression.    None  could  have  guessed,  seeing 
that  look,  that  an  empty  purse  was  in  her  mind. 

"It's  cold  and  windy,  of  course,"  she  murmured, 
as  though  debating.  "  What  way  would  you  go  if 
you  walked?  " 

"Walked?    To  Stackfield?    To-night?" 

"  Isn't  it  the  thing,"  said  Harrie,  "  to  walk 
alone?" 

"  Naturally  you  can  if  you  like  it,"  said  Rosaline, 
with  recovered  indifference.  "  But  it's  miles." 

"  How  many  miles:  and  where  do  they  go?  " 

"  You  can  follow  the  river,  of  course  —  but  that's 
longer.  You  would  go  to  Radley,  I  suppose,  and 
then  get  a  short  cut.  Look  here,"  said  Rosaline, 
remembering  her  position  as  hostess,  "  will  you  have 
my  bicycle?  " 

"  It's  kind  of  you,"  said  Harrie,  "  but  I  love  to 
be  on  my  feet.  Besides,  the  little  roads  here  are  so 
lovely.  Radley,  I  am  to  remember,  is  it?  Well, 
good-bye." 

She  had  the  ease  of  the  born  wanderer,  attending 
in  apparent  distraction  to  Miss  Maskery's  further 
directions.  She  was  to  "  take  a  tram  all  the  way," 
make  this  bend  and  that,  storm  and  capture  Ken- 
nington  and  Radley  —  and  then  she  would  find  a 
little  road.  It  was  this  little  road,  it  appeared,  that 
was  to  be  the  real  attraction  of  the  afternoon. 
Harrie' s  Irish  eyes  danced  at  the  thought  of  it. 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  269 

"  You  will  be  late  for  tea,"  was  Rosaline's  final 
warning,  "  and  Mrs.  Escreet  does  not  like  it." 

"  They  won't  mind  for  once,"  said  Harriet. 

Rosaline  remembered  her  awakened  look,  as  of 
some  secret  joy,  afterwards,  when  circumstances 
drove  her  to  recur  to  this  innocent  conversation. 

It  was  in  the  "  little  road  "  that  Harriet  met  Pat. 

How  it  was  that  —  granted  she  was  fated  to  meet 
him  —  she  could  have  met  him  nowhere  else,  I 
appeal  to  solely  Irish  authorities  to  decide.  It  was 
absolutely  the  first  point  on  the  homeward  way 
where  poetry  and  romance  arose  together  from  the 
ground,  and  so  Kathleen's  son  had  chosen  it  for  his 
appearing. 

The  cold  English  March  holds  —  had  we  the 
courage  to  observe  it  —  some  of  the  most  hopelessly 
exquisite  moments  of  the  year.  It  is  the  mistrustful 
month,  to  be  sure,  blighting  its  own  buds,  yet  unable 
quite  to  refrain  from  attending  to  the  song  of  the 
breaking  spring.  Its  fairy  hour  is  between  four  and 
five,  the  hour  that  is  most  ordinary  in  August.  This 
was  not  a  beautiful  evening,  this  of  Miss  Clench's 
walk,  for  the  sky  was  gray  and  colorless,  the  horizon 
on  all  sides  empty  of  interest,  and  promising  even  in 
the  west  no  reviving  warmth  of  sunset.  The  new 
life  in  grass-blade  and  budding  leaf  seemed  to  shrink 
and  huddle  back  under  a  whistling  easterly  breeze. 


270  HERSELF 

Only  at  moments,  at  sheltered  corners,  the  ineffable 
unquenchable  scents  of  spring  seemed  to  come  to 
the  watcher  cunningly,  as  though  in  delicate  mockery 
of  this  chance  evening  of  cold;  and  once,  when 
H£rrie  stopped  under  cover  of  the  woods  by  Ken- 
nington,  a  thrush  was  doing  duty  for  a  nightingale 
nobly  in  a  tree  above  the  road. 

Round  the  first  turn  of  the  lane  Patrick  was  sitting 
by  the  wayside,  with  a  sprig  of  blackthorn  in  his 
hat.  He  was  turned  half  way  from  her,  his  clear 
profile  —  sharpened  since  she  had  seen  it  —  distinct 
upon  the  background  of  intermediate  brown  and 
blue.  His  hands  were  clasped  about  his  knees,  and 
his  neck  bent,  a  figure  of  perfect  melancholy,  mis- 
trusting all,  like  the  month  of  March.  When  he 
saw  her,  he  did  not  rise,  though  his  sad  face  altered 
charmingly.  He  threw  his  arms  wide,  with  the  ges- 
ture of  welcome  of  a  child  to  its  natural  protector. 

"  She's  come,"  he  cried,  "  and  I  was  asking  the 
spring  to  send  her.  It  is  badly  I  must  have  caught 
the  answer  then,  for  I  thought  all  the  world  was 
repeating  —  '  Not  yet.' ' 

The  girl  had  stopped  short  in  the  road,  her  hand 
-clutched  to  her  side,  her  chin  back,  as  once  when 
Geoffry  Horn  had  surprised  her  alone  in  the  French 
woods. 

"  Patrick,"  she  cried  in  low  reproach.  "  And  not 
to  warn  me.  Indeed  this  is  not  well  done." 


FAROVER  271 

"  Come  on,"  he  returned  cajoling.  "  Come  closer 
to  me,  little  thing,  and  I'll  explain." 

"  I  cannot,"  she  cried  again.  "  I  do  not  trust 
you.  Oh,  one  day  between  you  you  will  break  my 
heart." 

At  her  tone  the  young  man,  half-kneeling  as  he 
was  in  the  attitude  of  careless  grace,  got  slowly  to 
his  feet,  knocking  the  dust  from  his  soft  hat. 

"  I  alarmed  you,"  he  said,  as  though  speaking  to 
himself.  "  I  humbly  ask  your  pardon,  Harrie.  I 
thought  the  man  Escreet  would  have  told  you  I 
was  there.  I  waited  to  hear  from  you,  I  did  indeed. 
But  wanting  a  word  from  you  all  day,  how  could  I 
help  coming  near  you  to-night,  to  watch  the  road 
you  might  be  treading?  How  could  I  help  it, 
Harrie  ?" 

"  Why  not  have  gone  to  the  house  and  seen 
them?  "  She  still  reproached  him.  "  The  gentle- 
men here  do  not  do  such  things." 

"Would  you  have  liked  that  better?"  the  boy 
said,  puzzled.  "  But  yourself  was  not  there." 

"  And  how  did  you  know  that?  "  she  returned. 

"  How  did  I?  "  he  repeated  eagerly.  "  How  did 
I?  Is  it  the  first  time  I  have  vexed  you,  because  I 
knew  where  you  would  be?  " 

He  was  close  to  her  now,  and  had  caught  her  with 
his  hands. 

"  It's  yourself  I  want,"  he  cried,  "  and  how  would 


27«  HERSELF 

I  weary  myself  for  others'?  Am  I  not  to  have  one 
kiss,  Harrie,  after  this  mighty  separation4?  " 

She  gave  it  him.  With  his  blue  eyes  looking  clear 
as  a  child's  into  hers,  she  could  not  do  otherwise. 
Further  than  that,  pity  had  seized  her,  he  looked  so 
changed,  so  haggard,  in  the  gray  evening  light. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  in  the  sweetest  of  her 
tones,  "  and  you  have  been  ill." 

"  Do  I  look  it?  "  he  answered  lightly.  "  That  is 
ill-done  of  me,  darling,  when  you  are  there." 

"  Was  it  for  that  you  left  the  school?  " 

"  For  that,"  said  Patrick,  "  and  other  things." 
He  looked  restless  —  a  trifle  guilty  —  that  look  of  a 
delinquent  dog  that  she  knew  so  well  in  Brian. 

"  Are  they  not  satisfied?  What  have  you  been 
doing  to  them?  Can  you  not  go  back?  "  Her 
quick,  anxious  questions  were  heaped  upon  him,  as 
he  held  her  by  the  arms.  His  craftsman's  hands 
were  more  delicate  than  Brian's,  but  quite  as  strong; 
she  remembered  well  that  touch  again,  for  he  had 
held  her  so  before. 

Patrick  dwelt  upon  her  face  with  its  changing 
expressions  of  trouble  hungrily,  almost  curiously. 
"  How  will  I  go  back  if  I  am  not  better  after  the 
holidays,"  he  said,  teasing  her.  "  I  cannot  think  I 
will  be  better,  at  this  moment." 

"  It  is  not  the  holidays  yet,"  she  said. 

"  In  a  week's  time  it  will  be;  in  April.    Then  will 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  273 

be  the  time  for  us."  His  soft  eyes  poured  love  upon 
her:  a  dog's  love  and  little  more,  she  was  sure  of  it. 

"Why  did  you  come  to  Oxford?"  she  persisted, 
striving  against  the  charm  she  found  in  every  word. 

"  Why,  but  to  make  my  holidays  beautiful5?  You 
never  told  me  not  to  come." 

"  You  never  gave  me  time."  She  laughed  hope- 
lessly. "  Not  that  I'd  have  done  it."  She  clasped 
his  arm  in  return.  "  You  thin  boy,"  she  said. 
"  What  are  you  doing  for  yourself,  now,  tell  me 
that." 

"  The  doctor's  given  me  a  physic,"  said  Patrick, 
looking  down.  "  Talk  to  me  of  better  things." 

"  It's  what  I  must  know.  Where  does  he  live,  this 
doctor?  " 

Patrick  turned  his  eyes  on  her  slyly.  "  In  no  street 
that  matters,"  he  said.  "  There's  a  beautiful  one 
close  by.  That's  the  one  we  shall  take,  when  you 
come  with  me." 

"  You  mean  I  am  not  to  talk  of  it."  The  Clench 
in  her  followed  instantly.  "  Patrick,"  she  said  im- 
ploring, "  you  are  not  inventing  this  altogether?  " 

"  I'll  say  this,"  said  Pat,  getting  visibly  happier, 
"  it  is  more  for  you  than  the  doctor  I  came.  You're 
the  doctor  for  me,  you  bit  of  a  bright-eyed  thing. 
It's  well  I'll  be  soon  in  your  company." 

Thus  freed  from  the  distasteful  shadow,  whether 
of  his  illness  or  his  deception,  he  branched  to  other 


374  HERSELF 

and  brighter  things.  They  talked  long  and  inti- 
mately, strolling  slowly  arm-in-arm  down  the  little 
road  among  the  woods,  for  she  could  not  thrust  him 
from  her  at  once,  though  she  knew  she  should  be  at 
Farover.  She  heard  of  his  work,  his  ups  and  downs 
of  interest  in  it,  and  despair;  the  petty  jealousies 
and  interferences  of  the  school  staff,  some  of  which 
he  had  managed  to  escape  by  living  outside  the 
precincts.  It  had  been  his  own  choice,  Harrie 
gathered,  to  live  alone,  though  he  had  been  offered 
first  a  resident  post,  and  he  tried  to  persuade  her 
that  it  did  not  come  "  expensive." 

Other  facts  she  learnt  were  that  the  headmaster's 
daughters  were  "  fine  girls,"  and  he  gave  them  pri- 
vate lessons:  that  he  had  "a  lot  of  holidays,"  and 
seemed  to  be  often  in  London.  Further,  "  Mr. 
Wynne  was  a  good  man,"  Pat  said  of  his  employer- 
in-chief :  his  virtue  proving  to  consist  in  praising  some 
drawings  he  had  done  him.  Pat  had  helped  in  the 
designs  for  some  new  buildings,  and  Harriet  thought 
she  perceived  how  the  good  Mr.  Wynne  had  got  as 
much  as  possible  out  of  the  young  artist  attached  to 
his  staff,  for  no  extra  remuneration.  She  imagined 
the  master  must  needs  feel  a  little  indebted  or 
shamed,  to  let  Morough  go  so  easily  before  the  term 
was  fully  finished,  with  little  or  no  explanation  or 
excuse. 

"  He  has  written  once  after  me  to  enquire,"  said 


FAROVER  375 

Pat  of  his  good  man,  "  and  to  send  some  money  to 
me." 

"  Money  he  owed,"  asked  Harriet,  "  or  in 
advance?  " 

"  In  advance,  may  be."  Pat  looked  rather  sulky 
for  a  minute.  "  He'll  have  the  worth  of  it  some 
time,  when  I  work  for  him  again." 

This  showed  the  girl  clearly  his  true  feeling  to- 
wards his  employer.  From  one  of  his  own  kind  he 
would  have  taken  the  advance  in  the  spirit  of  a 
gift,  and  gladly.  Here  was  money  actually,  that  Pat 
Morough  was  trusting  to  repay ! 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Mr.  Horn?  "  said  Harrie, 
as  though  directly  on  the  thought.  Patrick  had  not 
heard;  he  had  a  notion  he  might  have  missed  a  letter 
with  a  scolding,  through  coming  so  quickly  away. 
Horn  had  his  address  at  Bluffborough,  of  course, 
being  acquainted  with  the  man  Wynne;  but  "  down 
there,"  as  Pat  said  guilelessly,  "  they  would  hardly 
know  where  he  had  gone." 

"Then  this  Oxford  doctor  is  not  Mr.  Wynne's 
advice,"  said  Harrie  at  once. 

He  was  not :  Patrick  himself  had  found  him,  as  a 
man  suiting  his  private  taste  and  need.  Glancing 
sidelong  at  his  face,  she  found  her  vagabond  cousin 
smiling  broadly. 

"  You  to  have  suspicions  of  me,"  he  crowed. 
"  For  you  have,  and  indeed  who  better  reason?  " 


276  HERSELF 

"  Well,"  Harrie  defended  herself.  "  How  can  I 
ever  know  what  to  think?  " 

"  Think  what  you  wish,"  he  insinuated,  "  and 
that'll  be  the  best." 

"  I  cannot  want  you  ill,  as  you  know,"  she  said. 

"Then  wish  it  was  for  none  but  you  I  came," 
returned  Pat.  "  Wish  that  I'm  loving  you  entirely." 

"You're  hopeless,"  said  Harrie,  sighing.  "I'll 
not  wish  it  yet,  so  I  tell  you.  What  I  do  wish  is 
for  you,  now  and  forever,  to  keep  your  engage- 
ments." 

"  Well,  I'll  do  that,"  he  assented,  after  a  space  of 
watching  her  under  the  shade  of  his  drooping  lashes. 
"  Engage  me  to  come  home  with  you  now,  and  I'll 
keep  it  truly." 

"  No,"  the  girl  said  quickly.  "  They're  going 
out." 

"  Why,  that's  the  more  reason.  Can  I  not  have 
supper  with  you?  " 

"  You  cannot,"  returned  his  cousin.  "  Have  you 
learnt  so  little  of  English  ways  as  to  propose  it? 
You  don't  know  how  they  would  think  of  you,  in 
that  grand  house  —  or  of  me,  either." 

She  argued  as  with  a  young  child,  for  his  aspect 
was  protesting.  He  looked  tired  too,  and  curiously 
pale  in  the  twilight  —  the  mere  ghost  of  a  merry 
Irish  tramp  at  her  side.  Twilight  it  could  be  called, 
for  they  were  now  approaching  Farover,  for  all  their 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  277 

slow  walking,  and  the  trees  were  thickening  above 
them  on  the  lonely  road. 

"  You  mean  I  may  not  come,"  he  murmured, 
"  and  you  to  be  alone  all  the  evening.  Where  am  I 
to  go  then  —  tell  me  that." 

"  You  must  go  away.  You  must  go  home."  It 
might  really  have  been  to  a  lost  dog,  gaunt  with 
sad  eyes,  that  she  was  speaking.  And  the  dog  would 
have  shown  as  much  comprehension. 

"  I  will  tell  them  of  you,  Pat,"  she  promised.  "  I 
will  do  it  at  once.  You  will  get  asked  there  surely, 
to  have  dinner  or  tea.  They  have  been  kind,  and 
they  will  let  me  see  you." 

In  her  heart,  though,  she  did  not  think  they  would. 
Thinking  of  Gervase  and  of  him  alternately,  and  of 
the  undelivered  message,  she  wished  her  heart  did 
not  hurt  her  so. 

"  How  long  will  it  be,"  he  said,  "  for  waiting? 
As  long  as  last  time?  " 

For  a  moment  she  stood  fighting  the  most  trouble- 
some emotion,  for  his  tone  had  pierced  her  through. 
He  saw  it,  or  felt,  for  he  leapt  forward  in  the  road. 

"  Indeed,  Harrie,  I  should  not  have  said  it.  It's 
kneeling  at  your  feet  I  should  be,  before  my  tongue 
should  reproach  you.  Do  not  remember  it,  my 
darling  —  my  mother's  son  has  not  grown  to  that." 

His  arms  were  about  her,  though  he  did  not  kiss 
her  again. 


*78  HERSELF 

"  I  will  come  to  you,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  But  I 
trust  you  not  to  come." 

"  The  first  half's  all  I  need,"  he  said.  "  You'll 
promise,  mavourneen'?  " 

They  stood,  holding  by  both  hands  a  moment; 
and  then  she  drew  hers  from  his  clasp,  and  turned. 
Chimneys  among  the  foliage,  and  a  warm  hearth 
were  before  her;  but  he  was  left  in  the  bleak  spring 
world,  and  the  short  day  dying  from  the  open  sky 
beyond  the  trees. 


VII 


WINIFRED  ESCREET  called  Harrie  to  her  room, 
where  she  was  dressing  under  the  light  of  all  the 
candles,  and  looked  at  her  curiously  when  she  came 
there.  She  told  Hester,  who  was  in  the  room,  that 
she  could  go. 

"  You  look  tired,"  she  said  with  mechanical 
kindness. 

"  I  walked  home,"  said  Harrie.  "  I  met  a  friend." 
In  the  disturbance  of  her  thoughts  she  blurted  like 
a  schoolgirl.  Winifred  instantly  turned  frosty. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  and  who  was  that4?  " 

"Patrick  Morough.  He  said  Mr.  Escreet  had 
seen  him." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Winifred,  colder  from  shyness  of 
the  subject.  "  What  is  he,  I  forget?  " 

"  My  father's  sister's  son,"  said  Harrie.  "  A  poor 
boy :  a  drawing-master  in  a  school." 

"What  school?" 

"  Mr.  Wynne's,  at  Bluffborough,  near  London." 

"  I  seem  to  have  heard  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet. 
She  devoted  herself  to  the  arrangement  of  shaded 


280  HERSELF 

roses  among  her  ancient  lace.     "  You  want  to  see 
this  Mr.  Morough,"  she  said. 

"  Since  he's  my  cousin,"  said  Harriet.  Through- 
out the  dialogue  she  was  blunt,  but  not  rude.  Her 
voice  and  accent  saved  her,  even  in  extreme  excite- 
ment as  at  present.  Mrs.  Escreet  felt  the  excitement, 
being  vexed  by  it  as  something  foreign  to  the  air  of 
Farover,  and  faintly  suspicious  of  it  too. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  got  his  address  at  Abing- 
don?  "  she  said. 

"  I  have,"  said  Harrie.     "  Why?  " 

"  It  would  be  kind  of  you  to  stitch  me  here,"  said 
Winifred,  feeling  a  seam  of  her  satin  train  absently. 
"  Hester  has  forgotten  the  hook."  When  she  had 
got  the  girl  behind  her,  she  proceeded. 

"Why  I  want  the  address?  I  must  make 
enquiries  naturally.  I  mean,  before  I  invite  him  to 
the  house." 

"  If  you  make  enquiries,  you  will  never  have  him 
invited,"  said  Harrie,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  her  quick 
fingers  diligent. 

"Why?"  said  Winifred. 

"  Because  it  shows  you  suspect  him,  and  that  he 
would  not  bear.  Can  you  not  take  my  father's 
nephew  on  trust,  and  you  a  friend?  " 

Again,  she  was  direct  rather  than  rude,  but  her 
patroness  before  the  glass  flushed  angrily. 

"  Your  father's  own  dealings  were  not  always 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  281 

impeccable,"  she  said.  Her  veiled  antagonism  to 
the  girl  began  to  assert  itself.  Harrie  winced,  still 
kneeling  as  she  was  to  fasten  the  beautiful  satin  robe. 

"  And  you  have  no  trust  in  me  either*?  "  she  said, 
throwing  the  glossy  folds  from  her  with  a  movement 
full  of  power  and  art,  so  that  they  lay  straightway 
in  the  right  lines  on  the  floor.  Winifred,  pleased 
with  the  effect,  resumed  her  manner  of  still  reason. 

"  Well,  what  can  I  think,  Harriet,  when  I  give 
you  one  hour  after  lunch-time  and  you  stay  out  more 
than  three?" 

"  Are  you  angry  at  that?  Have  you  been  needing 
me?  Of  course  I  had  the  morning?"  The  girl 
seemed  to  feel  the  weight  of  her  rebuke  at  once, 
which  was  some  satisfaction.  Gervase  also  had  had 
the  morning  away  from  her,  and  had  enjoyed  it 
a  little  too  much.  Winifred  had  not  quite  recovered 
from  her  annoyance  at  his  enthusiasm. 

"  My  husband  has  fixed  the  last  gues't  for  our 
dinner  in  April,"  she  said,  "  and  the  cards  should  be 
written  at  once.  I  have  left  the  list  on  the  bureau 
downstairs." 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Harrie.  "That  looks  very 
well."  She  alluded  to  Mrs.  Escreet's  gown,  and  in 
spite  of  herself,  the  lady  inside  the  gown  felt 
flattered.  Miss  Clench's  standard  in  dress,  she  had 
had  reason  to  feel  once  or  twice,  was  as  pitiless  as 
her  own.  After  a  pause  the  girl  proceeded,  conceal- 


282  HERSELF 

ing  the  effort  it  cost  her,  though  glancing  nervously 
at  Winifred's  face. 

"  I  had  to  ask  you  another  thing,"  she  said. 
"  You'll  not  mind  paying  me  by  the  month'?  " 

Winifred  stopped  in  all  her  glory,  overcome  by 
surprise. 

"  I  am  right  to  ask  you  about  it  and  not  him^  " 
said  Harriet.  "  I  know  till  now  we  have  not  spoken 
of  money." 

"  Do  you  need  money*?  "  Winifred's  voice  was 
sharper  than  she  meant,  for  she  had  a  new  suspicion. 
In  conjunction  with  meeting  her  "  friend "  so 
recently,  the  request  was  odd. 

"  I've  little  in  my  purse,"  said  the  girl  simply. 
She  had  been  just  four  weeks  in  the  house,  and  it  had 
occurred  to  nobody  she  was  in  need.  The  day's 
outing  had  exactly  exhausted  her  little  reserve,  for 
she  had  spent  all  her  big  savings  on  the  journey. 

Mrs.  Escreet,  still  not  knowing  what  to  think,  and 
annoyed  at  her  own  state  of  indecision,  said :  "  Come 
to  me  to-morrow  morning  in  the  study  and  we'll 
settle  it."  With  which  the  girl,  faintly  thanking 
her,  had  to  be  content.  After  all,  she  reflected,  how 
could  any  occupant  of  Farover  know  the  significance 
of  an  empty  purse,  the  teasing  train  of  thought  it 
aroused  in  the  brain  of  its  possessor"?  From  the 
stable-boy  to  Mr.  Escreet,  theirs  were  empty  but  to 
be  refilled.  They  were  the  happy  people ! 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  283 

"You  won't  be  lonely?"  Winifred  asked  her  in 
the  hall  at  parting,  with  recovered  good-humor.  A 
letter  in  a  masculine  hand  was  lying  on  the  oak 
table,  where  it  had  waited  all  day. 

"  No,"  said  Harriet,  laying  a  hand  on  the  letter. 
"  You'll  not  mind  it  if  I  play  a  little,  will  you?  " 

"Goodness  no.  Amuse  yourself.  Come,  Ger- 
vase." 

Gervase  advanced,  admirably  attired,  the  picture 
of  confident  charm. 

"  We  leave  the  house  in  your  charge,  Miss  Har- 
riet," he  said.  "  Like  the  girl  in  the  story,  you  are 
to  let  nobody  in,  whatever  they  may  come  selling." 

"  Just  what  she  will  do,  probably,"  said  Winifred 
in  the  carriage.  She  confided  a  good  deal  to  Gervase 
during  the  drive.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  heard  of 
a  sister  of  the  conqueror  Clench;  and  they  had  in 
consequence  to  consider  the  cousin  well-invented. 

Harriet  kept  GeofTry's  letter  as  a  treat  till  after 
dinner.  The  cook  gave  her  a  beautiful  little  meal, 
which  revived  her  spirits  slightly.  Afterwards, 
telling  Hester  it  was  what  she  liked,  she  sat  in  the 
dark  for  a  period  in  the  drawing-room,  thinking  and 
enjoying  her  situation,  for  it  was  like  old  times  to 
be  alone. 

Hester,  when  she  brought  the  rose-shaded  lamp, 
observed  that  it  was  raining. 

"I  heard  it,"  said  Harriet  absently.     "I  hope 


284  HERSELF 

Mrs.  Escreet's  satin'll  not  get  wet."  Hester  retired, 
smiling  as  usual.  The  prudent  instinct  shown  in  the 
remark  her  own  northern  frugality  approved;  only 
it  was  odd  applied  to  Mrs.  Escreet,  who  had  half  a 
dozen  other  dresses,  and  was  wearing  a  compara- 
tively old  one. 

"  Will  you  have  the  piano-candles,  Miss  Har- 
riet? "  she  enquired  before  she  went. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  shall  like  the  dark 
better." 

Then,  when  Hester  was  gone,  she  read  Geoffry's 
letter.  She  began  it  happily  enough,  curled  up  in 
her  sofa-corner,  but  it  grew  terribly  disturbing. 
She  hardly  grasped  all  its  news  at  once,  the  emotion 
of  the  first  item  stirred  her  whole  being  so  much. 

There  had  been  a  letter  from  Brian!  It  had 
dawned,  that  white  shape  so  much  wished-for,  and 
vanished  into  the  night.  What  had  happened  to  it 
Geoffry  could  not  say.  He  had  had  —  it  was  like 
him  —  the  idea  of  going  to  Versailles,  on  the  private 
detective  work  of  tracking  her  correspondence.  He 
had  armed  himself  with  all  kinds  of  authority  from 
the  consuls,  with  "  some "  of  whom  he  was  ac- 
quainted. He  assured  her  he  had  enjoyed  a  visit  to 
the  gardens  by  the  way,  but  Harrie  saw  clearly  that 
he  had  taken  much  trouble  in  her  cause.  There  was 
nothing  for  her  at  the  post-office;  but  having  suffi- 
ciently teased  the  employes,  GeofTry  discovered  that 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  285 

there  had  been  a  letter  with  American  postmarks, 
which  had  been  sent  on  to  the  Barrieres.  Mr.  Horn 
had  proceeded  to  that  familiar  haunt,  and  had  inter- 
viewed a  disaffected  servant  —  probably  a  new  one 
since  Miss  Clench's  time.  The  girl  remembered  a 
letter  with  some  trouble,  and  thought  Madame  had 
opened  it ;  she  knew  no  more,  or  else  did  not  want  to 
say.  Geoffry  left  the  enquiry  at  that  point  to  his 
correspondent  —  only  suggesting  that  the  envelope 
might  have  had  money,  which  showed  a  startling 
knowledge  of  Madame  Barriere. 

There  remained  a  little  more  news  in  the  letter, 
but  the  girl  threw  it  aside  and  went  to  the  piano. 
Her  emotions  were  breaking  her,  and  she  must  sing. 
Rarely,  in  private  with  Fraiilein  Lindt,  she  had  so 
relieved  herself,  letting  loose  the  voice  that  was 
being  kept  for  Brian.  It  was  her  secret,  her  best  and 
dearest,  and  whatever  went  wrong  between  them,  as 
things  seemed  fated  to  go  wrong,  with  this  voice  she 
could  at  least  call  to  him. 

She  sang  without  tears,  for  her  suffering  to-night 
was  too  deep-seated  for  that.  Her  voice,  during  the 
interval  since  she  had  last  interviewed  it,  had  im- 
proved. It  was  broader  and  deeper,  and  it  seemed 
to  fill  her  throat  and  knock  against  her  lips.  She 
would  not  open  her  lips  very  wide,  singing  in  the 
"  little  voice  "  that  was  fit  for  a  small  room.  But 
the  little  voice  was  very  pure  and  penetrating;  and 


HERSELF 

Marion,  Hester  and  John,  at  supper  in  the  kitchen, 
heard  it  and  opened  the  door. 

"  There  you  are,"  said  Hester,  as  though  in 
demonstration  of  something  already  obvious.  "  She 
would  beat  'em  all,  master  and  mistress  not  excepted, 
if  she  would  only  let  herself  out." 

"Then  why  doesn't  she4?"  said  John  with  re- 
spect. 

"  Because,"  said  Hester  severely,  "  she's  been  kept 
too  low." 

After  an  interval  of  eating  and  attending —  "  It's 
a  pity  she's  there,"  said  the  soft-hearted  cook,  "  and 
nobody  to  see  or  hear  her." 

There  was  somebody  to  hear,  as  it  happened,  and 
that  a  listener  entranced.  He  leant  against  the 
house-wall  in  the  rain,  having  crept  round  into  the 
garden,  near  where  shafts  of  light  from  the  drawing- 
room  lay  out  upon  the  lawn.  He  was  a  stray  dog, 
come  begging  again  because  he  could  not  keep  away. 
He  listened  now  with  shut  eyes  and  lips,  the  tears 
and  the  raindrops  on  his  face.  Patrick's  passion 
grew  no  deeper,  because  of  that  treasure  of  sound 
he  found  in  his  beloved  —  he  would  have  said  he 
expected  it,  no  doubt,  though  he  had  only  heard  her 
croon  a  little  on  the  bridge.  She  had  told  him  not 
to  come,  he  could  not  imagine  why;  but,  forbidden 
or  not,  he  had  been  drawn  along  the  roads  again, 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  287 

through  the  cold  drizzle,  to  the  spots  he  knew  she 
haunted. 

Harrie  sang  on,  little  thinking  that  she  sang  to 
him:  that  the  invocation  of  Brian  Clench  had 
drawn  a  thin,  sad  shade  of  his  conquering  presence 
near  to  her.  She  sang  a  few  of  her  mother's  songs, 
of  which  the  memory  lingered,  fragments  of  the 
fervent  operatic  practice  which  Brian  had  instituted 
and  inspired;  she  sang  —  a  trifle  incorrectly,  as  her 
cousin  noted  with  a  smile  —  some  Irish  ballads  with 
which  "  himself "  had  probably  amused  her  child- 
hood; and  she  sang  finally  the  Orpheus  Scena, 
which  she  had  evidently  studied  in  the  score,  for 
she  had  it  all  correctly  and  by  heart. 

"What  will  I  do  without  her?"  groaned 
Morough,  in  echo  of  her  latest  song,  and  limped 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house. 

If  he  wished  to  attack  her  stronghold,  he  had 
better  have  gone  to  the  back  entrance,  where  the 
kind  kitchen  population  would  at  least  have  had  pity 
for  him.  Young,  tired,  ragged  and  wet  as  he  was, 
he  might  have  appealed  to  them,  and  handsome 
enough,  for  all  his  disarray,  to  have  melted  harder 
hearts  than  those  of  Hester  or  of  Marion.  But, 
calling  on  his  lady,  Patrick  went  to  the  front  door; 
and  Hester,  after  a  passage  of  chaff  with  John,  went 
to  open  in  her  best  manner  —  which  was  stony. 

She  came  to  the  drawing-room  after  an  interval, 


288  HERSELF 

still  preserving  her  stiff est  public  manner.  "  Mr. 
Morrow,"  she  said,  "  and  would  Miss  Clench  see  him 
a  minute  9  " 

"  No,  Miss  Clench  would  not." 

A  little  indignant  head  jerked  up  from  among  the 
corner  cushions  of  the  sofa,  where  it  seemed  that 
Miss  Clench  had  been  crying,  after  the  effort  of  her 
concert. 

Hester  went  back;  then,  with  clear  unwillingness, 
presented  herself  again.  It  seemed,  Mr.  Morrow  had 
a  letter  from  Miss  Clench's  father,  which  he  was 
longing  to  hand  her  in  person. 

"  And  that's  unworthy  of  him,"  cried  Harriet. 
"  You  can  tell  him  I  said  so,  if  you  like." 

After  some  more  short  parleying,  the  front  door 
closed  with  a  click  of  neat  severity,  and  Harrie,  who 
had  been  listening  to  Hester's  now  retreating  foot- 
steps with  her  head  back  and  set  lips,  relaxed  the 
tension  of  her  brow.  She  remained  rather  pale  and 
as  though  wondering  at  herself. 

"I've  turned  him  out  in  the  rain,"  she  said  to 
nobody,  "  and  he  is  Kathleen's  son."  There  might 
have  been  any  sentiment  in  her  tone,  from  triumph 
to  utter  despair. 

Hester,  coming  in  much  later,  found  her  curled 
up  among  the  cushions,  with  Geoffry's  letter  open 
on  her  knee.  She  looked  tired  to  death,  and  the 


FAROVER  289 

little  vertical  line  that  should  hardly  be  visible  under 
twenty  years  haunted  her  brow.  She  had  read  the 
letter  to  the  end,  and  found  it  contained  a  word  or 
two  of  Patrick. 

The  statement  was  simple  enough,  though  it 
needed  an  effort,  in  her  rather  dazed  state,  to  take 
in  its  whole  purport.  Patrick's  illness  was  genuine 
and  serious,  and  he  was  in  debt  to  others  besides 
the  doctors,  at  Bluffborough  and  in  London.  Those 
were  the  facts,  and  it  was  not  wonderful  that,  being 
what  they  were,  he  had  confessed  them  to  Horn 
rather  than  to  Harrie.  He  had  plainly  considered 
his  illness  at  least  was  no  affair  of  hers.  He  had  not 
even  begged  of  her,  though  he  had  been  begging 
again  of  Geoffry.  Harrie,  though  she  might  lend 
him  money  to  help  his  art,  must  not  soil  her  fingers 
with  so  ugly  a  business  as  physical  disease.  It  was 
all  simple  —  and  collectable  extremely;  only  it  was 
so  heart-breaking  too. 

Mr.  Horn  desired  to  send  him  aid,  but  knew 
neither  the  boy's  present  whereabouts,  nor  the  names 
of  his  debtors.  Writing  to  Mr.  Wynne  and  to 
Harrie  was  his  only  resource,  and  he  had  heard  noth- 
ing from  the  headmaster. 

"  I  would  send  him  a  blank  check,"  wrote  Geoffry 
in  desperation  evidently  equal  to  hers,  "  if  I  thought 
he  was  anywhere  near  you;  but  I  do  not  even  know 
that." 


S90  HERSELF 

This  was  what  Harriet  was  pondering  when  the 
parlormaid  came  in. 

"  You  have  no  letters  for  the  post,  Miss?  "  she 
said. 

"  No,  no,"  the  girl  said  wearily.  "  There's  noth- 
ing I  can  do  to-night." 

"  You  are  in  trouble,  Miss  Harriet,"  said  Hester 
in  a  sane,  quiet  tone,  as  she  knelt  to  brush  some 
errant  ashes  under  the  fire.  It  may  be  mentioned, 
Hester  had  told  the  kitchen  nothing  of  the  young 
man  at  the  door.  She  was  only  thankful  she  had 
disturbed  herself  to  answer  that  bell,  instead  of 
John. 

"  I  am,"  said  Harrie  simply.    "  I  want  advice." 

"You'd  not  be  going  to  the  clergyman,"  said 
Hester  thoughtfully,  leaning  a  hand  on  the  grate, 
and  looking  in  the  fire.  "  Mrs.  Grayling,  now,  she's 
kind." 

"  I  fear  I  can  hardly  tell  her,"  said  the  girl  Hes- 
ter recurred  to  the  fire  again,  as  though  consulting  it; 
she  had  not,  it  was  noticeable,  mentioned  her  own 
master  and  mistress 

"  If  it's  a  woman  you  want,"  said  Hester,  "  there's 
Miss  Ann." 

"Ann  Maskery?"  The  girl  on  the  sofa  stirred. 
"  I  do  not  know  her  at  all,  Hester;  what  of  her?  " 

"  She's  got  sense,  for  a  young  lady,"  said  Hester, 
with  due  moderation. 


FAROVER 

"  Do  you  know  her,  then?  "  said  Harrie. 

Hester  smiled  a  trifle.  "  Not  to  say  know,  Miss. 
She  came  up  canvassing  Mrs.  Odgers,  the  daily  char, 
catching  her  here  more  easily  than  at  home.  She 
canvassed  Marion  too  —  not  that  Marion  is  any 
good  to  her;  but  it's  just  duty,  with  Miss  Ann.  She 
said  she'd  educate  Marion,  against  she  marries,  and 
you  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Odgers  shake,  for  well 
she  knows  she  manages  the  opinions  of  hers." 

"  Did  she  not  canvass  you  against  you  marry, 
Hester?  " 

"  No,  Miss,  she  did  not;  well  knowing  my  politics 
fixed."  Hester  came  of  staunch  Liberal  yeoman 
stock  in  a  Northern  county;  Harrie  of  course  knew 
nothing  of  these  things. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  she  said,  "  where  I  should  be 
able  to  get  at  Miss  Maskery.  I  missed  her  at  Oxford 
to-day." 

"  You  must  catch  her  flying,"  said  Hester.  "  She's 
here,  there  and  everywhere  on  her  bicycle.  But  Mrs. 
Odgers  did  mention,  she  was  coming  soon  for  a 
round." 

"  I  will  catch  her  flying,"  said  Harriet,  rousing  to 
life  a  trifle.  "  Does  she  go  at  all  to  Abingdon,  Hes- 
ter, do  you  know*?  " 

"  To  be  sure  she  does,  and  stays  there  very  often. 
She  has  friends  everywhere  in  the  district,  Miss 
Ann," 


HERSELF 

Harriet  went  to  bed  before  the  Escreets  returned. 
She  had  to  admit  a  headache,  but  she  was  a  little 
lighter  in  mind.  She  thanked  heaven  and  Hester 
for  a  new  suggestion. 


VIII 

NEXT  morning  Miss  Clench's  anxieties  were  further 
lightened  by  receiving  two  gold  sovereigns  from 
Winifred.  She  stored  these  up  in  a  little  leather 
bag,  as  pleased  as  though  she  had  made  a  fortune. 
She  looked,  as  Winifred  might  have  noticed, 
younger  at  once. 

"  The  secretary  is  singing  under  the  window," 
said  Gervase,  peering  out  of  the  side-bow  of  the 
drawing-room.  "Life  is  evidently  not  as  flat  as 
usual.  Anyhow  her  notes  are  not." 

"  She  has  a  voice  of  sorts,"  Mrs.  Escreet  admitted. 
The  pair  were  in  the  drawing-room,  in  grave  con- 
ference over  some  patterns  of  brocade;  for  even  in 
the  house,  Winifred  liked  his  opinion  on  everything 
planned  or  ordered. 

"  Call  her  up  and  make  her  show  it,"  said  Ger- 
vase, who  was  idle.  As  Winifred,  less  idle,  lingered 
in  spectacles  over  the  fat  pattern-books,  he  opened 
the  piano  and  struck  a  note. 

"  Sing  a  scale,  Harri-et,"  he  called.  "  Up  you 
go." 


294  HERSELF 

The  voice  in  the  garden,  after  a  short  pause,  went 
up  obediently;  but  lightly,  a  mere  breath,  and  she 
laughed  at  the  end. 

"  Come  along  here  to  my  wife,"  called  Gervase 
again.  "  She  feels  a  mission  to  teach  you." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  Gervase,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  as 
the  girl  appeared,  her  hands  full  of  the  flowers  she 
had  been  collecting  for  the  vases. 

"  Harriet  is  busy,  and  so  am  I." 

"  No  time  for  missions  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Escreet, 
shutting  the  piano. 

"  The  missus  is  dressing  the  chairs.  Thank  you, 
Harriet,  that  will  do." 

"  Of  course  I  will  give  her  lessons  if  she  likes," 
said  Winifred,  half-turning  to  the  window.  "  You 
have  never  had  any,  I  suppose." 

"  Never  one,"  said  Harriet,  very  definitely;  "  and 
I  cannot  have  them  yet." 

"  If  you  are  eighteen,"  said  Winifred,  "  it  is  fully 
time." 

"  It  would  be,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  girl.  "  Aren't 
these  red  anemones  lovely?  "  She  went  on  her  way 
with  her  treasures. 

"  Didn't  catch  her  that  time,"  said  Gervase. 
"  You  don't  catch  our  secretary-bird  easily.  It's  a 
pretty  little  pipe,  though,  in  its  way." 

As  his  wife  said  nothing,  they  plunged  into 
brocades  again. 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  295 

It  was  some  days  later  that,  armed  with  her 
sovereigns  changed  into  postal  orders,  Harrie  caught 
Ann  Maskery  "  flying."  She  had  no  news  at  all  of 
Patrick  in  the  interval,  and  teased  herself  wondering 
what  had  become  of  him;  for  to  go  herself  to  his 
address  was  out  of  the  question,  and  the  card  she 
sent  to  him  explaining  this  remained  unanswered. 
She  knew  that  Mrs.  Escreet  had  sent  a  messenger  to 
the  country  town,  but  nothing  was  disclosed  to  her 
of  the  result,  and  neither  pride  nor  prudence  would 
let  her  question  the  servants.  As  for  attacking  Wini- 
fred again,  she  found  she  could  not  face  it,  at  least 
immediately;  all  she  knew  —  and,  indeed,  it  was 
sufficient  to  know  it  —  was,  that  no  further  word 
was  breathed  at  Farover  concerning  an  invitation  to 
her  cousin. 

The  flying  Ann  was  hard  to  catch;  but  one  after- 
noon, returning  from  a  walk  with  Muriel,  Miss 
Clench  came  upon  her  at  the  Vicarage  gate.  She  had 
halted  there  for  a  brief  rest,  and  was  now  clearly 
preparing  to  spread  her  wings  anew.  She  was  trimly 
clad  in  gray  homespun;  but  further  than  this,  the 
less  said  of  Ann's  appearance  the  better,  for  she  was 
very  plain. 

"  How  d'ye  do,"  said  Ann  agreeably,  removing 
the  foot  she  had  planted  on  the  pedal.  "  Well, 
Muriel,  I  must  say  you  are  a  nice  person,  not  even 
to  shake  hands."  Muriel  shrugged,  and  walked  into 


296  HERSELF 

the  Vicarage,  kicking  open  the  gate.  "  Cross,"  com- 
mented Ann.  "  She  can  be  quite  a  nice  kid  when 
she  likes,  but  this  is  a  bad  day.  You're  on  your  way 
back  to  Farover,  I  suppose." 

"And  you?"  returned  Miss  Clench  in  foreign 
style. 

"  I  am  going  on."  The  "  on,"  as  pronounced  with 
a  gesture,  was  expressive.  It  meant  that  Ann, 
primed  with  instructive  leaflets,  was  making  a  circuit 
of  her  scattered  flock. 

"  Could  you  allow  me  a  minute  before  you  go 
there?"  said  Miss  Clench,  with  comically  lifted 
brows. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  Ann,  rising  to  any  call 
with  a  prompt  geniality  that  seemed  professional. 
"We'll  talk  by  the  pig-stye;  the  wind's  the  other 
way." 

No  sooner  proposed  than  accomplished.  The 
Vicarage  kitchen-garden,  rather  small  and  un- 
kempt, abutted  on  the  church,  and  being  secured, 
on  two  sides  by  the  pig-stye  and  the  high  road,  was 
protected  from  the  house  in  the  rear  by  a  shrubbery 
of  laurels.  It  thus  afforded  excellent  cover  for  an 
intimate  conversation,  as  Ann's  diplomatic  instinct 
had  suggested.  The  political  bicycle,  bristling  with 
leaflets,  was  leant  against  the  outer  wall,  where  it 
was  safe  to  be  undisturbed,  being  known  as  Miss 
Ann's  throughout  three  parishes;  and  Harriet  and 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  897 

her  new  acquaintance  sat  down  within  upon  a  rustic 
seat,  which  presented  a  perfect  view  of  Stackfield 
Church  to  the  visitor's  admiration. 

"  Frightful,  isn't  it'?  "  said  Ann.  "  I  often  come 
here  with  Uncle  Fred  to  dwell  on  it,  on  Sunday 
afternoons." 

"I  didn't  see  your  aunt  to-day,"  said  Harriet, 
clasping  her  knees,  on  which  the  leather  bag  was 
lying.  "  I  hope  she  is  well." 

"No,  she  isn't,"  said  Ann  gravely;  adding  after 
a  silence,  "  Secret,  of  course." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  it,"  said  Harrie.  "  You  know, 
it's  in  her  face." 

"  Very  few  people  have  seen  it  there,"  said  Ann. 
"  Anyone  else  would  have  given  up  long  before,  and 
she  will  have  to  knock  under  soon.  She  says  I  am 
not  to  tell  Rosie  until  I  must;  which  will  be  late, 
for  she's  the  last  person  to  discover.  Oh,  goodness 
me,  the  illness  in  the  world." 

She  squared  a  fist  as  though  she  would  have 
fought  it. 

"  Muriel  doesn't  suspect,"  said  Harrie,  having 
learnt  the  few  details  there  were  to  learn  —  for 
nothing  is  more  simple  than  a  fatal  illness,  unless 
its  sequel,  death. 

"  Think  not?  I'm  not  so  sure.  Muriel's  a  clever 
child.  I  told  Aunt  Amabel  to-day  it  might  account 
for  some  of  her  rages  with  Uncle  Fred.  Muriel's 


298  HERSELF 

got  twice  his  brains,  you  know,  and  that's  a  fact. 
Do  you  understand  her?  " 

"  I'm  beginning  to,"  said  Harrie.  "  I've  an  idea 
she's  simple,  really." 

"  So  she  is,"  said  Ann.  "  If  I  had  ever  had  time, 
so  to  speak,  to  work  Muriel  out,  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  have  a  fling;  but  she  needs  all  your  time  and 
will-power  —  no  mistake." 

"And  yours  are  wanted  already,"  said  Harrie. 
"  It  would  be  awful  of  me  to  ask  for  a  bit  of  them, 
wouldn't  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ann,  with  a  glance  and  a  turn. 
"Only  you'll  be  very  kind  to  be  quick,  for  I'm 
promised  on  honor  at  Abingdon  by  five." 

"  That's  lucky,  for  it  is  the  very  place  I  want." 
She  went  on  to  tell  Ann  her  difficulties,  straight  and 
simply,  and  Ann  listened  with  interest,  taking  her 
in  with  pleasant  clear  eyes  the  while.  She  had,  very 
vaguely,  a  look  of  her  aunt,  but  her  manner  was  far 
more  bracing. 

"Why  can't  you  go  yourself?"  she  demanded. 
"  Is  he  in  love  with  you?  " 

"That's  one  thing,"  admitted  Miss  Clench. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  marry  him?  "  said  Ann, 
pinning  her  as  it  were. 

"  I  cannot.  I  don't  feel  to  him  that  way,  nor 
does  he  if  he  would  believe  it;  and  besides,  he  is  ill." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Ann  with  a  shrug. 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  299 

"  Well,  I  wrote  and  he  sent  me  no  reply.  Maybe 
he  has  moved  to  Oxford,  and  in  that  case  there  may 
be  debts."  She  produced  the  postal  orders,  tidying 
them  out  with  her  little  hands.  "It's  horrid  to 
tease  you  about  it,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  Ann's 
square  face,  "  but  you  must  take  my  word  I  would 
do  it  if  I  could." 

"  Give  me  the  address,"  said  Ann,  and  Harrie  did 
so.  "  Mrs.  Blencow?  Yes  —  Blencow's  on  my  list, 
though  he's  shaky." 

"That's  lovely,  if  you  know  them,"  said  Harrie 
with  relief.  "  It's  only  to  ask  her  if  she's  been  paid : 
and  which  are  the  tradesmen  wanting  money:  and 
then,  if  he  has  gone  from  her  as  I  think,  where  he  is." 

Ann  frowned  a  minute,  her  fists  to  her  chin. 
"What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  she  broke  out. 
"  You  oughtn't  to  be  paying.  I  suppose  you  know 
that  hasn't  a  good  look." 

"  I  should  know  that  indeed,"  said  Harrie.  "  The 
thing  is,  if  I  began  now,  would  I  ever  have  the  time 
to  explain?  "  She  sent  a  suggestive  glance  up  to  the 
church  clock. 

"  I've  not  the  time  to-night,  that's  true,"  said 
Miss  Maskery,  rising.  "  And  besides,  I  don't  need 
explanation.  There's  nothing  dishonest  about  you, 
whatever  other  people  may  turn  out." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harrie,  and  her  soft  eyes 
showed  tears. 


300  HERSELF 

"I  say,"  said  Ann  in  a  burst,  as  they  clasped 
hands,  "why  don't  you  make  a  friend  of  Auntie*? 
Have  you  an  idea,  the  sort  of  things  that  are  said 
about  you,  up  at  the  Champions',  and  here4?  Rosie 
has  got  hold  of  a  pack  of  them,  and  thinks  she's 
sharp  in  adding  to  them,  but  I  told  her  not  to  repeat 
what  she  didn't  really  understand.  Whatever  else 
I  am  not,"  said  Ann,  with  her  chin  out,  "  I'm  her 
elder  sister." 

"  Did  she  get  the  things  she  heard  from  Mr. 
Tom'?  "  said  Harrie,  with  a  patience  the  other  girl 
noticed. 

"  Goodness,  no."  Ann's  face  glowed.  "  Tom's 
the  one  person  who,  since  he  saw  you,  won't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  You  would  be  safe  with  him. 
But  that's  not  the  point,  as  at  best  he's  only  a  man. 
Here's  Auntie,  close  at  hand.  Auntie's  magnificent ! 
And  once  persuaded,  she'd  work  for  you,  that  she 
would.  In  a  very  curious  way,  she  manages  even 
Uncle  Fred." 

"  It  is  .hard  for  me,"  said  Harrie,  "  not  being  of 
her  church." 

"  I  forgot  that,"  admitted  Ann,  and  paused. 
"  Oh,  bother  the  time,"  she  said,  stamping.  "  Well, 
I  like  you  anyhow ;  and,  look  here  —  we  will  meet 
again." 

She  said  the  final  sentences  without  the  garden- 
door,  and  climbing  on  her  bicycle. 


FAROVER  301 

"  When  you  will,"  said  Harrie,  "  but  you're  the 
busier." 

"  I'll  let  you  know,"  shouted  the  once  more  flying 
Ann.  "  Sorry  it's  so  short  —  oh,  dash  that  dog." 

So  inspiriting  was  the  pig-stye  interview,  that 
Harrie  was  almost  laughing  as  she  walked  on  up 
the  road  to  Farover.  This  type  of  English  girl  she 
seemed  to  have  heard  of,  and  it  did  not  seem  so 
strange  as  Rosaline's. 

She  had  to  wait  patiently  before  she  had  the 
chance  of  meeting  Ann  again.  She  had  a  line  from 
her  two  days  later — "Gone:  left  no  address:  I 
will  see  you  soon,"  enclosing  a  postal  order  for  one- 
and-six,  presumably  the  change  from  the  two 
pounds;  but  she  was  not  greatly  affected  by  the 
news,  for  she  had  already  misdoubted  as  much 
through  looks  and  hints  in  other  quarters.  For  any 
further  information  to  guide  her  perplexed  thoughts, 
or  to  help  Geoffry  Horn,  she  had  to  wait  many  days. 

On  one  of  the  earlier  Wednesdays  of  April,  she 
chose  a  harmless  moment  to  slip  into  the  drawing- 
room,  all  sounds  of  singing-practice  being  over.  She 
expected  the  trio  she  would  find;  and  Rosaline 
Maskery  was  there  sure  enough;  and  sure  enough, 
so  was  Tom,  sitting  on  the  low  window-ledge,  the 
spring  sun  catching  his  ruddy  face.  Winifred,  who 
never  left  this  pair  alone,  was  still  on  her  throne,  the 


302  HERSELF 

music-stool;  and  all  three  seemed  to  be  discussing 
with  some  heat,  as  Harrie  entered. 

"I  don't  think  somehow  it's  their  style,"  said 
Mr.  Champion.  "  It's  awfully  fine,  of  course,  and 
all  that,  Cousin  Win;  but  they  do  like  the  sort  of 
thing  they're  used  to." 

"  Which  is  exactly  how  they  never  learn  to  like 
better  things,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet. 

"  A  girl  in  a  decline,"  said  Rosaline  disdainfully, 
"  left  deserted  on  a  seashore,  and  a  religious  chorus 
in  waltz-time.  Everyone  knows  what  village  people 
like*9 

"  A  country-side  song  might  be  possible,"  said 
Winifred.  "  There  are  a  few  good  ones  in  the  best 
selections." 

"  The  women  don't  like  it  so  well,"  said  Tom. 
"  What  I  mean  is,  it  doesn't  get  at  them." 

"Who  wants  to?"  said  Rosaline.  "Really,  I 
have  a  great  mind  not  to  sing  at  all.  It's  too  much 
trouble  to  suit  everybody." 

"If  you  mean  me,"  said  her  teacher  smoothly, 
"  you  can  sing  what  you  like,  my  dear.  Only  I  can- 
not teach  it  to  you,  for  I  never  studied  those  things 
myself." 

"Does  it  need  study?"  said  Tom.  "I  should 
study  the  audience,  and  just  let  it  roll  out.  You've 
only  got  to  make  'em  laugh,  or  wipe  a  tear.  That 
is,  I've  got  to  do  one,  and  Rosie  the  other." 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  303 

"  I  can't  be  sentimental,"  said  Rosaline.  "  I'm 
not." 

"  They'll  do  the  sentiment,"  Mr.  Champion  con- 
soled her,  "  if  you  plug  out  the  stuff.  Won't  they, 
Miss  Clench?"  He  was  the  first  person  to  recog- 
nize her  entrance. 

"  Can't  I  hear  it  anyway?  "  said  Harrie.  "  Then 
I'd  know  better  how  they'd  feel." 

"You  can't,"  said  Rosaline  testily.  "For  the 
simple  reason  that  Mrs.  Escreet  hasn't  a  song  of 
that  kind  in  the  house.  I  shan't  sing,  that's  the 
simplest.  Tom  and  the  curate  can  plug  out,  as  he 
calls  it,  on  Saturday."  She  walked  to  the  tea-tray 
evidently  annoyed. 

"  My  trouble  is,  I  know  nothing  of  the  listeners," 
said  Harrie.  "  When  is  the  concert  fixed  for?  " 

"  April  the  twentieth,"  answered  both. 

"  The  twentieth?  Why  "  —  she  turned  to  Wini- 
fred—  "  isn't  that  your  dinner-party?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  quietly  turning  the 
music.  "  I  never  intended  to  go  myself." 

She  knew  that  Harriet  knew  how  recently  the 
date  had  been  changed,  and  was  not  the  better 
pleased  for  the  knowledge.  Luckily,  the  girl  had 
the  sense  to  say  nothing,  and  only  looked  enquiringly 
at  Tom,  who  was  one  of  the  favored  six  to  whom 
she  had  despatched  cards. 

"  Mrs.  Escreet  will  give  me  leave  not  after  din- 


304  HERSELF 

ner,"  the  young  man  jovially  explained,  "  won't  you, 
Cousin  Win  2  You'll  have  to  help  me  through,  Miss 
Clench,  if  Rosie  cuts,  that's  all." 

"Are  you  performing"?"  said  Rosaline,  turning 
on  her  almost  rudely. 

"  I  did  say  I  would  accompany  —  but  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling thought  I  might  take  supper  at  the  Vicarage. 
When  I  accepted  I  had  no  idea,"  said  Harrie  to  her 
hostess  in  apology,  "  that  it  would  turn  out  the  same 
night." 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet. 
She  also  rose  and  came  to  the  tea-table,  while  Mr. 
Champion  stared  at  her. 

"  Oh",  I  say,"  murmured  Tom.  He  corrected  the 
social  mistake  by  adding,  "  Well,  Rosie,  you'll  have 
to  relent." 

"  Rosaline  will  sing  for  my  guests,  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Escreet,  touching  the  girl's  soft  hair  as  she 
passed  her.  "  I  had  meant  to  engage  you,  my  dear, 
so  do  not  forget.  We  shall  make  a  better  audience, 
if  a  trifle  more  f  difficile,'  with  Dr.  Gudgeon." 

Dr.  Gudgeon  was  the  greatest  musical  light  of 
the  neighboring  University,  and  it  was  Winifred's 
triumph,  rather  than  that  of  her  husband,  to  have 
induced  him  to  come  and  shine  upon  this  select 
gathering  at  Farover.  Harrie,  in  writing  his  name 
on  the  dinner-card,  had  remembered  vaguely  having 
heard  of  him  from  Geoffry  Horn.  He  was  an 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  305 

eccentric  of  the  most  pronounced;  but  his  word,  at 
least  in  musical  matter,  was  law  to  the  Escreets. 
It  occurred  now  to  Winifred's  mind  in  its  deliberate 
planning,  to  get  his  approval  of  her  pupil  Rosaline ; 
even,  if  she  could  make  him  write  it,  to  add  it  to 
the  girl's  testimonials;  for  Rosaline  had  none  too 
many. 

A  little  later  they  went  into  the  garden,  on  which 
April  was  beginning  to  smile.  All  three  women 
were  rather  flushed,  and  glad  of  the  sweet  air  in 
their  faces.  Tom  was  tranquil,  but  his  lips  inclined 
to  shape  into  a  whistle.  He  had  an  idea  that 
currents  were  moving  under  this  mild  chit-chat  of 
the  drawing-room,  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  and 
which  he  was  very  thankful  to  ignore. 

Rosaline  discussed  music  persistently  with  his 
cousin;  so  he  had  no  choice  but  to  stroll  behind, 
and  talk  to  Miss  Clench.  Not  that  he  minded  that, 
for  the  girl  was  very  good  company.  Harriet  on 
her  side  was  watching  her  chance  to  get  a  word  with 
Ann's  sister,  but  she  was  ready  to  pass  the  moments 
in  friendly  give-and-take  with  Mr.  Champion,  who 
grew,  she  discovered,  on  acquaintance. 

Once  launched  in  conversation,  Harrie  could  not 
easily  remain  formal;  and,  as  a  fact,  they  were  so 
lively  that  Mrs.  Escreet  in  front  remarked  carelessly 
to  Rosaline  they  were  flirting.  It  was  only  when 


306  HERSELF 

the  foremost  couple  vanished  down  the  steps  of  the 
Dutch  garden,  that  Tom  stopped  quietly  beside  Miss 
Clench  on  the  terrace,  and  changed  his  tone. 

"You'll  excuse  me,"  he  said.  "Ann  —  Miss 
Maskery  —  gave  me  a  message  for  you,  if  I  could 
get  it  through.  I  didn't  suppose  I  should  have  an 
opportunity." 

Harrie  turned  on  him,  amazed  and  apprehensive. 

"  I  know  you'll  say  it's  none  of  my  business," 
said  Tom,  looking  at  her  full  and  steadily;  "but  I 
intervened,  as  a  friend,  to  save  Ann.  She's  awfully 
overworked  and  worried  —  my  father's  business 
she's  about,  don't  you  know." 

"  I  couldn't  find  anyone  else,"  gasped  Harrie;  the 
color,  rare  in  her  face,  had  risen  painfully.  Tom, 
seeing  the  signal  of  shame  and  self-reproach,  reflected 
her  color  as  he  proceeded. 

"  I  know  it.  It's  sickening  you  should  have  to 
do  it  either.  I  want  to  take  it  off  her  shoulders,  but 
I  must  have  your  leave." 

"  Has  she  told  you  then  about  it?  " 

"  I  must  explain,"  said  Tom,  after  a  pause,  "  that 
Ann  and  I  are  business  partners.  I  work  for  my 
father  too  in  the  district,  and  we  are  used  to  sharing 
things.  She  does  a  sight  too  much  always,  but  that's 
the  girl  she  is.  I  got  this  thing  out  of  her  on  one  of 
our  rounds  —  because,  of  course,  she  knows  I  am 
on  your  side.  It's  beastly  cheek,  Miss  Clench,"  said 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  307 

Tom,  with  vigor,  "  for  me  to  say  so.  But  since  you 
know  nothing  of  our  pestilent  habits,  I'd  better 
mention  that  country  people  take  sides  in  everything, 
whatever  there  is  to  discuss,  from  a  novel  to  a 
mowing-machine." 

"  I  know  I've  been  a  subject,"  said  Harrie. 
"  Miss  Maskery  let  me  know  that.  Besides  "  —  she 
crumpled  the  leaves  of  the  laurel  hedge  nervously  — 
"  I  know  the  feeling.  I've  been  it  before." 

"  I  bet  you  have,"  thought  Tom,  looking  her  over 
with  one  keen  glance.  "Well  now,  it's  like  this: 
Ann's  got  the  brains,  and  I've  got  the  legs  —  and 
the  time.  You  talk  to  her  all  you  want,  and  she'll 
give  me  orders.  If  it's  paying  bills,  I'll  pay  'em. 
If  it's  finding  an  address,  I'll  find  it.  Anyhow,  I'll 
do  my  best  to  follow  out  directions;  for  on  my 
honor,  and  you'll  excuse  me,  it's  not  the  work  for 
a  girl." 

He  talked  low  and  fast,  for  their  time  together 
was  limited.  The  expression  of  his  healthy  face  was 
grave,  almost  severe.  Only  his  voice  had  a  quiet 
cordiality  that  was  like  tonic  to  the  weary  girl  he 
addressed.  They  watched  a  minute,  till  Winifred 
and  Rosaline,  whose  voices  had  come  nearer  in  the 
winding  walks  below  them,  retreated  slowly  again. 
While  they  so  stood,  the  sweet  breeze  moved  their 
hair  agreeably,  and  produced  the  faintest  rustle  in 
the  laurel  hedge. 


308  HERSELF 

"  Will  I  see  your  partner  soon"? "  said  Harrie 
then,  in  her  delicate  little  voice. 

"  Before  the  end  of  the  week,  she  hopes  to  be  over 
again.  In  the  interval  —  this  is  her  message  —  will 
you  be  so  kind  as  to  keep  her  sister  out  of  it? 
There's  no  reason,  is  there,  that  she  should  be 
mixed  up?  " 

His  voice  was  just  a  little  pleading,  and  Harrie 
gave  him  an  impulsive  hand.  "  There  is  not,  in- 
deed," she  said,  "  and  you  may  trust  me  for  it. 
You're  very,  very  kind  —  both  you  and  she." 

They  then  talked  about  indifferent  things,  leaning 
on  the  terrace  wall,  till  Rosaline  and  Winifred, 
whose  light  dresses  were  now  once  more  flashing 
behind  the  budding  lilacs,  saw  fit  to  rejoin  them. 
But  not  all  the  winds  of  spring  could  cool  the  little 
flush  on  Harriets  pale  cheek;  and  Rosaline's  sharp 
eye  was  the  first  to  note  it. 


IX 


ANN  came  in  due  course,  and  the  girls*  next  talk 
was  in  comfort  and  at  leisure.  It  took  place  on 
a  day  of  rain  in  the  Vicarage  schoolroom,  under  the 
fitful  cover  of  Miss  Lindt's  practice.  Peace  breathed 
upon  the  Vicarage,  owing  largely  to  the  fact  that 
Muriel  was  in  bed  with  a  cold;  Bertha  was  free  to 
play  even  beyond  the  stated  hour  if  she  chose,  and 
Harrie  to  sit  with  Ann  over  the  schoolroom  fire,  and 
help  her  to  mend  stockings  for  Mrs.  Grayling,  free 
to  share  confidences  or  preserve  a  busy  silence,  as 
the  impulse  took  them,  or  as  the  music  allowed. 
Bertha,  who  in  preparing  for  the  concert  had  de- 
veloped a  sudden  and  brand-new  enthusiasm  for  a 
sonata  she  had  happened  to  neglect  for  several 
months,  could  be  trusted  not  to  attend  to  them  at 
all.  It  is  true,  she  gasped  remarks  at  intervals,  such 
as  "  So,"  and  "  Na,  na,"  and  "  drei  und  vier  —  ach, 
himmlisch "  —  even  very  rarely  she  appealed  for 
sympathy  across  her  shoulder,  with  a  rolling  eye 
and  a  rather  intoxicated  smile.  But  that  was 
nothing  to  Harriet,  who  had  long  been  used  to  her: 


310  HERSELF 

methods;  and  Ann  was  one  of  the  enviable  people 
with  no  ears,  and  no  sense  whatever  of  comedy  out 
of  its  place. 

Ann  was  recovering  from  a  very  bad  cold,  and 
Miss  Clench  began  by  informing  her  that  she  ought 
to  be  in  bed.  Ann  replied  that  Miss  Clench  looked 
like  a  fluffy  little  owl  that  had  sat  up  too  late;  and 
these  amenities  accomplished,  they  came  to  business. 

Ann  had  had  a  talk  with  Patrick's  late  landlady, 
who  was  a  simple  cottage  woman  in  the  little 
country  town.  Mrs.  Blencow,  it  appeared,  was  not 
without  a  tender  heart,  and  had  been  interested  in 
her  young  lodger,  though  he  had  been  sufficiently 
troublesome.  Mr.  Morough  had  had  his  faults,  she 
admitted,  and  what  with  paint  and  clay  puddings, 
she  had  not  been  able  to  get  his  room  clean  since. 
Beyond  this,  he  ordered  a  great  many  things  for 
which  he  had  no  money  to  pay;  and  he  had  had  a 
"  turn-up  "  with  some  young  louts  of  the  town  who 
mocked  his  sketches,  which  had  nearly  landed  him 
in  the  police-court.  He  was  ill,  and  coughed  dread- 
ful. She  did  not  like  her  little  girls  hanging  about 
him,  but  children  will  do  it.  He  had  a  way  with 
him,  too,  past  her  power  to  account  for.  All  this 
Ann  retailed  more  or  less,  with  much  conscience  and 
no  drama;  and  Harrie  attended,  her  head  bent  low, 
stitching  at  the  stocking  on  her  hand. 

One  night,  the  report  proceeded,  he  came  back 


FAROVER  311 

very  late  and  quite  wet  through,  and  Mrs.  Blencow 
tried  to  make  him  have  a  fire  in  his  small  upper 
room.  He  refused,  being  in  a  sulky  temper  as  she 
could  see,  and  would  only  sit  at  the  table,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hands.  The  next  morning,  she  found 
he  had  packed  his  small  knapsack  and  departed  — 
dropping,  she  supposed,  by  means  of  his  window  into 
the  back  garden,  for  he  was  "  as  active-made  as  a 
cat."  He  left  on  the  table  a  five-shilling  piece, 
which  was  not  enough  to  pay  her  bill,  let  alone 
satisfy  the  tradesmen. 

Harrie's  stocking-hand  dropped  in  her  lap;  she 
was  watching  the  fire  with  fixed  eyes,  and  the  ex- 
pression Ann  did  not  like. 

"  I  supposed,"  she  said,  "  that  was  the  way  he 
would  go.  He  was  really  offended  with  me  —  this 
time." 

"  Mrs.  Blencow  saw  no  reason  in  it,"  said  Ann 
with  severity,  "  for  she  had  treated  him  thoroughly 
well." 

"  She  wouldn't,"  said  Harrie  briefly.  "  It's  only 
I  that  know  anything  of  him,  and  it's  I  should  have 
prevented  it  in  time." 

"If  he's  so  ungrateful  and  worthless,"  said  the 
forthright  Ann,  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should  worry. 
I  shouldn't." 

"  You're  not  one  of  them,"  said  Harrie,  "  asking 
your  pardon.  Oh  dear,  I  have  been  wondering 


312  HERSELF 

about  the  Oxford  doctor.    Do  you  suppose,  Ann,  he 
left  his  account  there  unpaid  as  well  ?  " 

"  You're  sure  there  was  a  doctor?  "  said  Ann. 

"  No,"  Harrie  apologized.  "  You're  never  sure, 
with  Pat.  It's  only  he  said  so." 

"  What  I  mean  is,"  said  Miss  Maskery,  "  if  true, 
that  would  be  a  way  of  tracking  him.  Doctors  may 
be  common,  but  they're  limited." 

Miss  Clench  laughed  a  grain,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  I  like  the  way  you  talk,"  she  said.  "  There's 
so  much  hope  in  your  methods  —  not  knowing  the 
variety  you  are  dealing  with.  If  a  Clench  wants  to 
go  into  the  air,  he  goes.  The  only  sure  thing  is,  he 
will  turn  up  again." 

"  Oh,  you  are  sure  of  that,  are  you?  "  said  Miss 
Maskery.  "  When  his  bills  have  been  paid,  I  sup- 
pose." ' 

"It  does  not  depend  at  all  on  the  bills,"  said 
Harrie,  "  only  on  the  people  he  has  left  behind. 
When  they  deserve  him  really,  he'll  be  there." 

"  It's  a  nice  irresponsible  life  to  lead,"  said  Ann. 

"  It  is,"  said  Harrie,  "  except  for  the  people." 

They  darned  for  a  period  in  sisterly  concert. 

"  Tom  will  make  a  round  of  the  Oxford  doctors," 
said  Ann  presently,  "  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  have  him  troubled,"  said  Harrie. 

"  He's  always  glad  to  be  useful,"  said  Ann.  "  He 
• —  he's  a  rattling  good  sort." 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  313 

It  did  not  sound  sentimental,  but  Miss  Clench,  in 
her  instinctive  soul-exploration,  never  depended  upon 
words.  "  It  seems  he'd  do  anything  for  you,"  she 
said,  glancing  at  the  plain  girl. 

"  So  he  would.  He'll  be  a  useful  brother-in-law, 
won't  he?  "  said  Ann,  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  Do  you  want  that  to  happen?  "  said  Harrie, 
turning  the  stocking. 

"  It's  got  to  happen,"  said  Ann.  "  It's  the  only 
hope  now  —  for  Rosie." 

"  And  what  about  you?  "  said  Harrie. 

A  musical  accompaniment,  especially  one  that  is 
sober  and  beautiful,  is  a  great  spur  to  intimate 
conversation,  for  it  at  once  loosens  the  emotions, 
and  soothes  the  nerves.  Ann,  for  all  her  strength 
of  character,  had  nerves;  as  indeed  was  almost  in- 
evitable, in  the  agitating  life  she  led. 

"  I  shan't  marry,"  said  Ann. 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  it's  pretty  obvious,  isn't  it?  "  She  looked 
at  her  friend  squarely.  "  Even  without  Rosie  at 
hand  for  contrast,  as  she  has  been  all  my  life." 
Ann  frowned  and  winced.  "  Heavens,  my  head  is 
aching,"  she  added  suddenly.  "  It  must  be  the 
wind." 

"  Come  down  here,"  said  Harriet,  dropping  a 
cushion  on  the  floor  by  her  side.  "  Bertha  used  to 
have  awful  headaches,  and  I  know  how  to  manage." 


314  HERSELF 

Ann  subsided  on  to  the  hearth  at  her  bidding  and 
laid  her  head  back  on  Miss  Clench's  knee. 

'  Would  you  not  wish  to  marry?  "  she  said  pres- 
ently, when  she  had  massaged  some  of  the  neuralgic 
attack  away. 

"That's  another  reason  why  I  shan't."  Ann 
laughed  with  bitterness.  "I  want  it  so  much. 
Look  here,  Harrie,  I'll  tell  you  —  when  I  can.  I 
never  got  it  said  to  anyone  before;  but  you're  a  safe 
sort  of  kitten  to  talk  to,  if  one  must  be  a  fool." 

"  I'd  really  like  to  hear,"  said  Harrie  gently.  Un- 
seen above  Ann's  head,  she  shut  her  eyes,  for  she 
already  knew  the  most  salient  fact  of  the  confession. 

"  I  know  a  lot  of  things,"  said  Ann.  "  I  have 
taught  myself  hard,  in  order  to  teach  these  ignorant 
country  people.  You  know,  to  get  at  their  sort,  it's 
not  only  things  of  the  brain  you  must  know :  not  only 
political  and  social  principles,  though  that's  impor- 
tant enough,  goodness  knows.  It's  other  very  com- 
mon things  —  things  of  the  matter  of  life.  If  you 
don't  know  about  babies,"  said  Ann,  "  and  how  to 
manage  money,  and  how  to  keep  a  young  girl  in 
good  ways  —  or  a  boy  for  that  matter :  and  how  best 
to  get  the  children  taught,  and  how  to  keep  them 
clean  and  the  house  healthy  —  well,  you  don't  get 
very  far.  I've  learnt  all  that  —  well,  partly,  of 
course,  because  I  liked  it.  I  should  make  a  capital 
wife  —  I  could  bring  up  a  large  family,  and  I  want 


FAROVER  315 

it."  The  girl's  hand  struck  the  floor  almost  furi- 
ously. "  I  want  the  work  of  it.  I've  no  moony 
ideas  about  marriage." 

"None?"  said  Harrie. 

"  Oh  Lord  —  yes,  of  course,  there's  him.  But 
Rosaline's  got  him,  and  she  is  my  sister  and  the 
little  one,  so  what's  the  good  of  talking."  This,  the 
root  of  the  confession,  came  in  a  quick,  mechanical 
mutter,  the  very  heart  of  the  girl  speaking  without 
her  will.  She  swept  a  hand  across  her  brow  after- 
wards, as  though  Harrie' s  fine  fingers  had  hypno- 
tized the  truth  out  of  her. 

Fraiilein  Lindt,  now  quiet  and  rapt  in  her  corner, 
played  half  a  slow  movement  before  they  resumed. 

"  And  what  does  Rosaline  want? "  said  the 
younger  girl  rather  fearfully. 

"  She  wants,"  said  Ann,  "  to  be  a  bride. —  Yes  " 

—  she  clenched  her  hands  —  "  it's  awful  to  say  it, 
for  her  sister;  but  I  know  well  enough  what  I'm  talk- 
ing about.     I  have  heard  her  chatter  often,  at  the 
times  when  you  show  yourself  in  what  you  say.     I 
have  listened  and  not  said  much:  she  had  no  idea 
what  I  was  thinking  —  thought  me  sulky  very  likely 

—  or  jealous."     The  girl  gulped.     "  If  I  had  ever 
heard  the  real  thing,  Harrie,  in  what  she  said,  I'd 
bite  my  tongue  out  before  I  said  this  to  you  now." 

"  I  believe  that,"  said  Harrie. 

"She    doesn't    want    children,"    pursued    Ann. 


316  HERSELF 

"  She'd  hate  it,  and  be  frightened  too.  She  hasn't 
an  idea  of  what's  before  her,  beyond  the  wedding- 
day.  She  has  taken  nothing  seriously,  and  won't, 
till  it's  too  late."  She  became  almost  inaudible. 
"  And  that  man,  who  is  made  for  the  head  of  a  great 
family,  and  to  do  the  country  good  —  who  shares 
my  ideas,  and  could  give  me  more  if  he  chose  to  — 
he'll  marry  her  for  her  pretty  face." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Harrie  quickly. 

"  I  think  he  means  to,  now.  I  see  it  come  nearer, 
every  day.  He's  changed  lately,  even  to  me." 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  Ann,"  said  Harrie,  "  does  Mr.  Tom  think  you 
know  too  much?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ann  bluntly.  "Tom's  old-fash- 
ioned." 

"I  thought  I'd  seen  it  in  him."  Miss  Clench 
knitted  her  brows,  and  sought  in  vain  a  solution  of 
the  case  before  her. 

"  Really,  I  wonder  at  times,"  said  Ann  wearily, 
"  are  men  quite  mad.  Doesn't  it  really  matter  what 
we  think,  for  the  future,  I  mean?  Are  these 
thoughts  and  ideas  given  us  for  nothing  but  to  tease 
our  lives  out,  and  turn  our  hair  gray  before  we're 
thirty?  " 

Harrie  still  frowned.  "  You  can  pass  on  your 
notions  to  the  poor  people,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  can,"  said  Ann,  still  low  and  wearily.     "  And 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  317 

the  best  of  the  women  draw  away  from  me,  hold  me 
at  arm's  length,  in  everything  that  really  matters  — 
to  them  and  to  the  State  —  because  I  am  a  spinster. 
They  are  kind,"  said  Ann,  "  they  are  dears,  but  there 
is  always  that  little  pitying  smile.  Just  at  the  best, 
the  truest,  you  are  turned  out  of  heaven  —  your  own 
heaven,  Harrie  —  by  that  smile." 

After  another  period  of  Bertha's  music  and  Miss 
Clench's  comforting  hands,  Ann  turned  her  own 
smile,  which  was  very  sweet  and  generous,  up  to 
her  little  minister. 

"  You  will  never  know  that,  you  nice  little  thing," 
she  said.  "You  are  safe  anyhow  —  that's  one 
comfort." 


THE  village  concert  and  the  Escreet  dinner-party 
fell  on  Saturday;  and  Dr.  Gudgeon  came  to  stay 
for  the  end  of  the  week,  having,  with  the  careless 
ease  of  a  truly  great  man,  shelved  his  duties  as 
organist  of  a  big  college,  in  order  to  have  what  he 
called  his  Sunday  out.  He  was  fetched  from  the 
station  in  pomp  by  Mrs.  Escreet  herself,  who 
exerted  herself  all  the  way  home  to  keep  him 
amused,  and  to  put  him  into  the  genial  humor  suit- 
able to  the  guest  of  the  evening.  The  visitor  was  a 
short,  broad  man,  grotesquely  ugly,  extremely  un- 
kempt, of  an  appearance  indeed  that  would  have 
been  found  repulsive  in  any  city  less  tolerant  of 
eccentricity  than  the  one  in  which  he  had  dwelt  for 
thirty  years. 

He  had  known  Mrs.  Escreet' s  mother,  and  she 
herself  had  for  a  short  time  been  his  pupil,  when 
she  first  settled  as  a  bride  at  Farover;  facts  which 
gave  him,  at  least  in  his  own  opinion,  the  right  to 
behave  to  her  as  uncivilly  as  he  pleased.  To-day 
he  had  come  with  the  full  intention  of  showing  him- 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  319 

self  fatherly  and  pleasant;  but  his  hostess,  who 
deigned  to  drive  him  with  her  own  hands,  had  only 
to  advance  the  mildest  personal  opinion,  to  have  it 
snapped  off  instantly  short;  as  a  blundering  cow 
will  snap  off  a  dandelion  that  chances  to  lift  a  head 
in  her  path. 

They  had  to  pass  through  Stackfield  to  reach 
Farover,  from  end  to  end  of  the  straggling  village; 
and  as  luck  would  have  it,  they  came  upon  Miss 
Clench  and  the  curate,  laden  with  branches  and 
flags,  proceeding  to  the  Parish  Room. 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon; 
and  Mrs.  Escreet,  who  had  bowed  benevolently  to 
the  curate,  felt  compelled  to  draw  up. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  Thus  it  appeared 
the  great  man  was  distantly  acquainted  with  the 
curate,  during  his  recent  Oxford  career. 

"  Only  a  little  concert  we're  getting  up,  sir,"  said 
the  curate,  with  a  shy  laugh.  "  All  in  the  day's 
work."  He  was  very  young,  and  quite  newly  settled 
in  Stackfield;  thus  it  need  not  be  said  he  had  imbibed 
the  local  awe  of  Farover  and  its  mistress. 

"  A  church  restoration  fund  that  needs  repleting," 
said  Winifred,  holding  her  young  horse  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"  What  a  way  to  get  money,"  said  the  polite 
musician.  "  Yowling  and  tootling,  eh?  —  one  after 
another.  Far  better  ask  'em  straight." 


320  HERSELF 

"We've  tried  that,"  said  the  curate  with  diffi- 
dence. "  Allow  me,  Mrs.  Escreet."  At  a  sign  from 
her,  he  went  thankfully  to  the  horse's  head:  out  of 
Gudgeon's  range,  as  he  thought. 

:<  Well  then,  the  thing's  not  wanted  and  you 
should  drop  it,"  that  authority  shouted  after  him. 
"Hey?  What  are  you  up  to  now?"  He  settled 
upon  Harrie,  whose  eye  he  had  caught.  He  had  a 
known  taste  for  lively  young  people,  and  the  pass- 
ing spark  promised  liveliness. 

"  Hanging  the  national  flags,"  she  answered  at 
once.  "  I  had  to  choose,  and  I  found  all  the  green 
ones  were  least  faded."  She  aimed  this  at  Wini- 
fred, who  barely  smiled. 

"  You  had  better  not  omit  the  stars  and  stripes," 
she  said.  "  It's  more  showy  than  green.  Where  is 
my  husband,  Harriet?  " 

"  I  left  him  at  the  house.  He  said  he  didn't  want 
me,  and  Mr.  Finch  did,"  was  Harriet's  explanation. 

Winifred,  furious  with  her  bad  taste  shown  be- 
fore this  exigent  visitor,  drove  on  with  lifted  brows 
and  mouth  set  in  disdain.  It  was  only  after  some 
minutes  of  lofty  silence  that  she  discovered  Dr. 
Gudgeon  chuckling  silently. 

"  What's  that  girl,  Winifred?  "  he  said. 

"  A  Miss  Clench,  come  to  us  to  be  Ger vase's 
amanuensis  for  a  time.  She  is  Brian's  daughter," 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R 

she  added  rapidly,  realizing  that  he  would  be  bound 
to  track  the  name  down. 

"  Now  I  could  have  guessed  that,"  said  Dr. 
Gudgeon.  "I  could  have  guessed  that  all  alone. 
And  where's  the  impossible  Brian  ?  " 

"  Nobody  knows,"  said  Winifred  coldly.  She 
was  rather  wishing  that  the  pony  would  walk  faster 
up  the  hill. 

"  Or  cares,"  her  visitor  scoffed.  "  Somebody 
cared  at  one  time,  I  remember." 

He  had  a  terrific  memory,  on  which  all  the  incon- 
venient or  disintegrating  facts  were  engraved,  and 
the  convenient  or  sociable  facts  omitted. 

"  Now  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  with 
an  effort  to  avoid  the  douche.  If  she  persuaded  him 
of  genuine  indifference,  he  might  let  her  off. 

"  Ho,  didn't  they,"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon.  "  There 
was  a  time  I  have  not  forgotten,  you  couldn't  let  his 
name  alone." 

"  Well,  no  more  could  Gervase,"  said  Winifred, 
showing  fight.  "  He  occupied  our  minds  enough 
that  spring,  for  the  best  of  reasons." 

"  And  you  were  thankful  when  he  left,"  said  the 
organist.  "Both  of  you,  hey*?"  He  shook  with 
an  inner  chuckle  again.  "  The  Clenches  always 
studied  the  art  of  taking  leave,  for  the  best  of  their 
reasons,  which  were  always  good.  Well,  well:  I 


HERSELF 

remember  the  little  Kathleen  at  that,  so  perhaps  I 
shouldn't  talk." 

"Was  that  a  sister4?"  Winifred  fastened  on  the 
diversion.  "  Tell  me,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
nephew  *?  " 

"  Kathleen  had  a  boy  —  delicate  though.  I 
think  he  died." 

"  Whom  did  she  marry?  "  said  Mrs.  Escreet. 

"That's  the  last  thing  to  ask,  isn't  it*?"  said 
Gudgeon,  shaking  again.  "  Since  she  didn't  marry 
me.  Not  that  I  ever  asked  her,  but  she  could  have 
done  it  if  she  chose.  Long  was  the  name,"  he  added, 
catching  a  memory  suddenly  as  the  aged  do. 

Winifred  set  her  lips,  and  flicked  the  pony. 

Knowing  her  tyrant's  taste  for  young  society, 
Mrs.  Escreet  had  retained  Tom  to  lunch,  and  en- 
gaged Rosaline  to  stay  over  Sunday.  Harrie  she  did 
not  consciously  count,  as  she  had  no  wish  for  the 
conspicuous  little  Irish  girl  to  interfere  with  her 
schemes  in  Rosaline's  interest.  She  had  granted  her 
leave  to  pass  all  the  afternoon  in  the  village  if  she 
preferred;  but  Harriet,  as  things  turned  out,  did  not 
avail  herself  of  the  permission  altogether. 

She  came  back  to  Farover  after  lunch,  about  two 
in  the  afternoon,  and  found  Mr.  Champion  in  the 
rose-garden,  smoking  the  roses. 

"Where  are  they  all?"  she  said  with  brilliant 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  323 

eyes.  Her  chin  was  up,  and  she  looked  defiant  of 
the  world.  Tom  had  seen  it  in  her  gait  as  she  came 
across  the  lawn.  He  compared  her  in  his  mind  to  a 
well-fitted  small  ship,  flying  the  challenge  to  a  con- 
gregated squadron  that  was  closing  on  her.  The 
free  poise  of  her,  to  Mr.  Champion's  mind,  always 
suggested  the  sea;  in  which  connection,  it  may  be 
said,  Tom  had  failed  for  the  navy  in  his  youth,  be- 
fore he  settled,  at  the  maternal  command,  into 
politics. 

"  They  are  sitting  round  Miss  Maskery  at  the 
piano,"  he  said.  "  A  conclave.  Cousin  Win  maneu- 
vered Gudgeon  magnificently,  though  he  assured  her 
he  preferred  to  go  to  sleep.  Rosie's  as  nervous  as 
they  make  'em  and  wouldn't  have  me,  so  I  stepped 
out.  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  he  added  at  leisure. 

"Nothing,"  said  Harrie  proudly;  "only  Mr. 
Grayling  does  not  want  me  to  supper  to-night." 

"  Does  not  want  you?  " 

"  No.    I'll  have  to  dine  with  you." 

"  Delighted,"  said  Tom  with  a  bow.  He  was 
rather  off  his  bearings,  and  redder  than  usual. 

"  Unless  of  course  Mrs.  Escreet  sends  me  to  bed," 
proceeded  Harrie,  sitting  on  the  sunk  wall  of  the 
rose-garden,  and  swinging  her  foot.  "  It's  pretty 
clear  she  doesn't  want  me  either." 

"  What  has  made  you  angry?  "  said  Tom. 

"Is  that  not  enough?     However,  I'll  tell  you  a 


HERSELF 

story,  to  amuse  you  while  you  wait  out  here.  It'll 
make  you  laugh,  as  it  did  me.  I  was  hanging  the 
flags  with  Mr.  Finch,  who's  a  donkey  at  it,  and  ham- 
mering my  fingers  while  he  passed  the  nails.  That 
was  in  the  Parish  Room,  where  I've  spent  the  entire 
morning,  and  the  gas  escaping  somewhere  we 
couldn't  find  it  though  we  blackened  our  hands  with 
dust.  Well,  there  we  were,  the  pair  of  us,  when  in 
comes  Muriel.  Do  you  know  her?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  who  seemed  troubled. 

"  The  curate,  seeing  the  child  first,  asks  her  what 
it  is.  '  Nothing,'  says  Muriel,  sitting  down  solidly 
on  a  form  just  near  to  us.  '  Where  is  your 
mother? '  I  asked,  for  she'd  been  tired  out  before  I 
came.  '  Mother's  at  home  in  the  drawing-room,' 
says  Muriel,  '  and  Mrs.  Champion  is  sitting  by  the 
sofa.'  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Tom" — for  the 
young  man  had  turned  his  back  to  her  suddenly,  as 
though  to  smoke  a  plant  in  his  rear. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"  '  What  have  you  come  for?'  said  Mr.  Finch: 
for  you  should  have  seen  the  child's  expression. 
'  Simply  to  stay  here,  thank  you,'  said  Muriel. 
'The  drawing-room  sent  me.' — Well" — as  Tom 
turned  about  again  —  "I  sat  up  on  the  ladder  and 
laughed.  Would  not  you  have  done  as  much? 
And  poor  Mr.  Finch  like  a  beetroot,  though  he  was 
only  telling  me  about  his  mother  at  Malvern." 


FAROVER  325 

"  Before  the  child,"  was  all  Tom  muttered.  He 
seemed  almost  as  restless  as  she  did. 

"  Muriel's  quicker  than  most  children,"  said  Har- 
riet. "  That  I'll  say  in  their  excuse.  I  am  sure  they 
never  guessed  she  understood.  But  the  curate,  of 
all  people!  Mr.  Tom,  what  harm  would  I  do  the 
curate,  tell  me  that?  I  —  I  took  the  greatest  care 
of  him."  The  girl  almost  broke  down,  for  the  irre- 
pressible Irish  humor  was  struggling  with  her  real 
emotion.  "Oh,  you've  seen  me  sitting  pretty 
patient  in  my  chair,  have  you  not?  —  but  I'm  mad 
with  it  sometimes.  What's  different,  between  me 
and  other  girls,  that's  what  I  want  to  know.  What 
is  there  different?" 

"  If  an  apology  from  me,"  said  Tom,  "  would  do 
any  good  —  but  in  this  case,  Miss  Clench,  I  can 
hardly  dare  to  speak." 

"  You  need  not,"  said  Harrie,  having  pity  on  his 
confusion.  "  I  only  told  you  because  you  were 
there,  and  it  was  mean  of  me,  indeed  it  was.  I'd 
have  let  it  out  on  anyone  else  just  as  easy:  only 
there  you  were  in  my  way,  and  so  you  had  to  have 
it."  She  laughed  through  her  tears  and  tossed  her 
head.  "I'll  go  to  the  house,  I  think,"  said  she. 
"  I'll  not  have  lunch  if  they  have  finished.  If  Ann 
comes,  say  I'm  upstairs.  You'll  be  very  kind." 

And  with  that,  and  a  beam  of  gray-blue  Irish  eyes, 
she  flickered  across  the  grass-plot  and  was  gone. 


326  HERSELF 

Five  minutes  later,  Ann  swept  up  to  the  gate  on  her 
bicycle,  and  Mr.  Champion  was  there  to  open  it. 

"  Something's  wrong,"  he  said  simply,  taking  the 
bicycle  from  her  hands,  and  lifting  it  for  safety  over 
the  low  wall. 

"  Wrong'?  Oh,  that  poor  little  thing!  Have  you 
seen  her?" 

"  She  didn't  tell  me  the  whole  of  it,"  said  Tom. 

"  Uncle  Fred  is  the  whole  of  it,"  Ann  replied, 
"  and  these  infernal  chatterers.  He's  very  bad  this 
morning,  Tom,  and  you  know  what  he  can  be.  I 
felt  in  my  bones,  as  soon  as  I  saw  him,  there  was 
something  up.  But  I  never  thought  he  could  tell  a 
girl  to  her  face  he  did  not  want  her  to  dinner !  " 

"  If  he  must,"  said  Tom,  "  it's  better  than  mak- 
ing his  wife  do  it." 

"  She  couldn't,"  said  Ann.  "  Even  he  could  see 
she  is  not  fit  to-day.  You  would  think  the  mere 
rudeness  to  her,  when  she  had  invited  Harrie,  would 
have  been  sufficient,  wouldn't  you?  But  no.  Do 
you  know  Uncle  Fred's  face,  when  he  deals  with  a 
story  of  that  sort?  It's  —  it's  vicious." 

"  Then  the  whole  business  is  out,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  could  do  nothing,"  said  Ann,  sinking  down 
exhausted  in  the  rose-garden.  "  I  tried,  but  he  knew 
it  all,  and  I  could  only  correct  the  details.  They 
know  all  about  the  Blencows,  and  the  bills,  and  the 
police  row,  and  escaping  through  the  window,  and 


FAROVER  327 

even  how  she  met  him  in  Stackfield  Lane.  If  you 
ask  how  they  discovered  it  was  her  money  —  I  can 
only  send  you  to  pick  over  the  pig-tub  of  tattle  there 
has  been.  I  shan't  mince  my  words,"  said  Ann, 
stamping.  "  I'm  mad  at  it,  and  mad  to  have  given 
her  away,  and  mad  to  have  stood  an  hour  before  my 
uncle  and  your  mother  to  be  talked  at.  But  sooner 
me  than  Aunt  Amabel." 

"  Was  he  down  on  you?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Not  more  than  he's  been  before,"  said  Ann 
grimly.  "  Uncle  Fred  doesn't  need  to  be  told  I'm  a 
busybody.  He  says,  this  will  be  a  lesson :  and  so  it 
will,"  said  Ann,  with  marked  pugnacity. 

"Lord!  why  didn't  you  use  me  at  first?"  the 
young  man  groaned.  "  They  would  never  have 
suspected  me." 

"Think  not?"  said  Ann,  and  looked  at  him 
squarely;  his  eyes  turned  from  hers.  "Well,  I  am 
going  in  to  her  —  is  she  in  her  room?  I  shall  jolly 
well  tell  her  not  to  trouble  about  them  further  — 
bothering  over  this  stupid  concert  as  she's  been." 

"  Muriel  is  out  of  it,  I  hope,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
a  big  young  man's  sympathy  for  little  girls. 

"  Muriel's  howling  in  her  bedroom.  Poor  Aunt 
Amabel,  a  pretty  life  she  has."  Ann  shrugged  and 
prepared  to  go.  She  was  sitting  on  the  wall  of  the 
rose-garden,  just  where  Harrie  had  sat,  and  Mr. 
Champion  could  not  help  noticing  the  contrast. 


328  HERSELF 

"  Did  you  tell  them  the  fellow  was  her  cousin?  " 
he  said  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  made  things  no  better.  If  I  had 
said  her  brother,  they  might  have  listened  to  me.  I 
wish  she  had  one,"  said  Ann  inconsequently. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  sort  of  thing  she  wants,"  said 
Tom  rather  low. 

"  Look  here,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Maskery,  leaning 
her  elbows  on  her  knees.  "  You  know  them  best, 
and  I  had  better  apply  to  you.  I  am  aware  Mrs. 
Escreet  is  good  for  nothing  in  this  affair :  I  have  the 
sense  to  see  that,  and  I  shan't  attempt  her.  What 
about  Mr.  Escreet?  " 

"  No  good  either,"  said  Tom,  without  even  re- 
moving his  pipe. 

"  Harriet's  worked  for  him,  and  jolly  well. 
What's  his  quarrel  with  her?  " 

"  He  has  none,"  said  Tom,  "  but  he  wouldn't  take 
her  part  in  this.  It's  not  enough  to  like  her,  remem- 
ber," he  added,  with  a  visible  effort.  "  You  must 
respect.  On  my  honor,  I'd  sooner  work  on  the  little 
curate  than  on  Cousin  Gervase." 

"  Well,"  said  Ann,  "  I  admit  you  ought  to  know. 
As  for  Finch,"  she  added  suddenly,  "he's  head- 
over-ears,  but  that's  not  the  point." 

"  He'll  sing  the  better  for  it  to-night,"  said  Tom 
grimly. 

Ann  rose  and  shook  herself.     "  Rosie  is  going  to 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  329 

play  up,  I  hope,"  she  said,  reminded  of  her  sister  by 
sounds  from  the  drawing-room.  "  They  are  count- 
ing on  her  for  a  song,  because  the  instrumental  pieces 
are  rather  heavy  on  the  programme." 

"That  good  governess  will  make  them  heavy," 
Tom  agreed;  "to  judge  by  her  rehearsal,  it's  the 
word.  Miss  Clench  is  largely  wanted,  I  understood, 
to  manage  her." 

"  She  always  seems  wanted  to  manage  things  that 
are  just  too  much  for  her,"  said  Harrie's  friend; 
having  disposed  of  which  sentiment,  Ann  nodded  to 
Mr.  Champion,  and  strode  up  the  terrace  steps. 

Ann  Maskery  did  not  go  to  the  drawing-room. 
She  went  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  was  heartily  wel- 
comed by  all  the  servants;  and  sitting  among  them 
with  her  arms  on  the  well-scrubbed  deal  table,  she 
laid  a  plot.  She  found  to  her  relief  that  her  fellow- 
conspirators  were  already  heart  and  soul  in  her  cause 
—  which  was  an  agreeable  surprise ;  for  to  order  a 
private  dinner  in  a  house  not  your  own,  and  to 
which  you  are  not  even  invited,  would  be  considered 
by  most  people  a  difficult  thing  to  do.  Yet  Ann 
found  that  her  experience  had  covered  many  a 
harder  undertaking.  The  argument  she  presented 
publicly  was  that  Miss  Clench  and  she  desired  to  be 
punctual  at  the  concert,  and  did  not  want  to  trouble 
Mrs.  Escreet,  whose  hospitality  no  one  doubted. 


330  HERSELF 

The  dinner-party,  reduced  to  six  since  the  elder  Mr. 
Champion  had  refused,  was  already  complete:  that 
Hester,  who  was  working  out  her  table,  must  allow. 
Two  stray  girls  would  over-balance  an  admirable 
scheme;  and,  as  Miss  Maskery  said  jovially,  there 
was  not  enough  cold  mutton  for  them  at  the  Vicar- 
age. Added  to  this,  Miss  Clench  was  putting  the 
last  stitches  in  a  blouse  which  had  to  be  worn  that 
evening.  Well  then  —  would  Marion  conceive  it 
possible  to  send  the  kitchen-maid  stealing  up  with  a 
tray  at  half-past  six? 

Marion,  much  entertained  by  Miss  Ann,  con- 
ceived it:  and  it  was  something  better  nor  cold 
mutton  she  should  have.  Hester  would  also  fetch 
the  blouse  to  finish,  only  she  wished  Miss  Clench 
would  wear  her  nice  dress. 

"  It's  much  too  nice,  Hester,"  said  Ann  solemnly. 
"  So  far,  I  have  only  been  allowed  one  peep  into  the 
cupboard.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  Farover  will  ever 
be  considered  good  enough  for  that  garment  —  even 
next  month  at  the  ball." 

"  Miss  Clench  is  comical  about  her  clothes,"  said 
Hester. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  dress  her? "  said  Ann. 
"  Tell  me  that,  Hester.  Wouldn't  you  just?  " 

:c  Well,  with  a  figure  like  that "  said  Hester. 

"  But  I  doubt  she'd  ever  let  me  have  the  chance,  she 
does  for  herself  that  persistent.  Now  go  along, 


FAROVER  381 

Miss  Ann,  we'll  not  be  teased  by  you  longer,  and 
Marion  with  her  hands  full." 

"  Miss  Ann  gets  plainer  than  ever,"  said  Marion 
later,  singing  over  her  pots.  "  But  so  cheerful-like, 
you  sometimes  wonder  if  she  knows  it." 

"  We  can't  all  be  comely,"  said  Hester,  who  was 
not. 

Dinner,  thanks  to  the  brilliant  efforts  of  Gervase 
and  Tom,  alternately  tactful  and  hearty,  was  tided 
over  successfully.  Nor  should  thanks  in  the  matter 
be  omitted  to  Winifred  the  housewife,  who,  with 
Marion's  aid,  had  constructed  a  meal  such  as  Dr. 
Gudgeon  had  not  eaten  for  years.  He  said  so  loudly 
at  the  third  course,  and  from  first  to  last  he  did  full 
justice  to  it.  Winifred  breathed  more  freely  when 
it  was  over  and  she  could  confide  her  late  anxieties, 
in  the  privacy  of  the  drawing-room  corner,  to  Mrs. 
Champion's  sympathetic  ear.  Rosaline  remained 
behind,  for  she  did  a  little  smoking  on  occasion,  and 
the  ogre  was  visibly  pleased  to  retain  her  at  his  side. 

Thus  the  elder  ladies  talked  in  peace,  and  the 
thing  they  talked  of  was  Miss  Clench,  and  the  new- 
est disclosures  concerning  her:  a  subject  which  could 
not  have  been  attacked  so  frankly  with  little  Rosa- 
line in  the  room. 

Mrs.  Champion,  who  in  reaching  the  solid  dignity 
of  Member's  wife,  had  had  to  forget  an  early 


332  HERSELF 

brewery,  was  nevertheless  a  person  whom  even  the 
wonderful  Mrs.  Escreet  could  not  ignore.  She  had 
made  her  husband's  fortune  by  her  social  enterprise 
and  resourcefulness,  and  her  studied  tact  was  so  fine 
as  to  be  almost  imperceptible.  She  knew  perfectly 
what  to  say  in  all  likely  junctures  of  life,  whether 
the  matter  were  art  criticism,  the  extravagance  of 
factory  girls,  or  an  unforeseen  accident  to  the  best 
tablecloth.  She  knew  now  what  to  say  about  Miss 
Clench  —  almost  better  than  Winifred  did;  for 
Mrs.  Champion,  not  being  at  close  quarters  with  the 
young  woman,  was  far  above  personalities.  It  was, 
as  she  said  several  times,  a  question  of  general  prin- 
ciple. The  election  omnibus  had  been  that  too,  Mrs. 
Escreet  remembered:  and  the  survival  of  the  offer- 
tory plate  at  Stackfield,  and  the  Risings'  nursery 
canary.  General  principles  embraced  the  common- 
est things  in  Mrs.  Champion's  life;  while  to  people 
who  habitually  do  without  them,  like  the  Escreets, 
they  remain  impressive  in  the  abstract,  but  not 
agreeable.  They  fell  into  the  same  category  at  Far- 
over  as  did  fire-escapes  and  lightning-conductors, 
admirable  inventions  in  themselves,  but  really  too 
depressing  to  have  about  the  house. 

Mrs.  Escreet  felt  a  slight  depression  now,  while 
Mrs.  Champion  talked,  and  also  a  slight  drowsiness. 
She  would  have  preferred  the  subject  played  with 
more  lightly,  with  that  chaffing,  tolerant  air  of  — 


FAROVER 

"  For  that  matter  we  have  all  done  such  things,  and 
everybody  would  do  so  if  they  dared  —  not  to  say 
cared,"  which  was  the  essence  of  the  Farover  spirit, 
and  which  Winifred  hit  off  very  nearly  as  well  as 
Gervase.  As  it  was,  she  twisted  her  fan,  and  said 
the  girl  was  not  bad,  and  no  doubt  would  do  in  some 
houses,  but  those  houses  not  either  Risings  or  Far- 
over,  for  reasons  not  identical,  but  perhaps 
analogous. 

"  She  has  a  free  manner,"  said  Mrs.  Champion, 
who  was  not  to  be  overawed  by  long  words,  and  pre- 
ferred clear  ones.  "  Not  offhand,  like  some  girls 
one  knows,  but  free.  Ann  Maskery,  now,  is  offhand 
with  her  elders,  and  often  rude.  But,  I  was  just 
thinking  this  morning,  you  can't  put  your  finger  on 
any  rudeness  in  Miss  Clench." 

"I  could,"  said  Winifred  lightly.  "I  call  it 
rude,  when  she  accompanies  me,  to  say  '  You'll 
have  this  down,  I  think,'  and  transpose  it  a  whole 
tone  before  I  ask  her.  That  is  of  a  piece  with  her 
telling  my  maid  I  looked  better  in  brown  than  black. 
It's  true,  of  course,  and  if  she  had  said  it  to  me  my- 
self, I  should  not  have  objected  so  much.  That 
would  be  merely,  as  you  say,  the  kind  of  thing  that 
Ann  would  do.  Ann  is  frequently  ponderous,  just 
like  her  poor  father.  I  often  wonder  where  Rosa- 
line gets  her  manners." 

"  Miss  Maskery  is  a  nice,  pretty  girl,"  said  Mrs. 


334  HERSELF 

Champion,  seeing  an  encomium  was  expected. 
"  Steady  at  early  church,  too,  Mr.  Grayling  says, 
always  in  the  right  place  in  the  house,  and  ready  to 
be  pleasant.  Her  singing  I  can  say  I  like  thor- 
oughly, Winifred,  it's  so  really  refined  —  just  what 
one  wants  one's  girls  to  learn.  She  would  not  mind 
dressing  a  little  quieter,  I  dare  say,  if  she  came  to 
me.  Not  that  I've  an  objection  to  pretty  clothes, 
it's  only  the  general  principle " 

Here  she  broke  off,  for  Miss  Maskery  herself 
walked  in.  Without  a  word  of  apology  for  inter- 
rupting the  tete-a-tete  on  the  sofa,  she  stepped 
swiftly  across,  and  paused  by  Winifred. 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  her  hostess  smoothly,  "  have 
you  had  enough  smoke*?  Suppose  we  take  the  duet 
once  through  before  they  come  in." 

"What's  the  good5?"  said  Rosaline  too  loud. 
"  He's  gone." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean*? "  said  Mrs.  Escreet, 
amazed. 

"  Both  of  them.  Dr.  Gudgeon's  gone  too.  It's 
Tom's  fault  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Champion, 
but  it  really  is.  I  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  talked 
about  the  curate's  stupid  song,  and  Dr.  Gudgeon 
said  he'd  give  his  wig  to  hear  it;  and  Mr.  Escreet  and 
I  told  him  the  sort  of  thing  the  concerts  always 
were,  and  how  vulgar  little  Finch  is,  and  that  you'd 
quite  given  up  trying  to  help  them." 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  335 

"And  that  made  him  more  inclined  than  ever," 
said  Winifred.  She  was  greatly  vexed,  but  her 
voice  was  controlled,  partly  in  warning  to  Rosaline. 
"Well,  he  will  soon  be  back  again,"  she  said. 
"  Meantime,  sing  for  Gervase  and  for  us,  Rosie." 

"  Mr.  Escreet  has  gone  after  them,"  said  Rosa- 
line. 

"  What?  "  Winifred  stirred,  and  her  voice  took  a 
new  tone. 

"  And  Ann  and  the  Irish  girl,  not  to  mention  the 
kitchen  maids.  Everyone  in  the  house  has  gone." 

"  Ann?  "  queried  the  visitor.  "  Is  your  sister 
staying  here  too,  my  dear?  " 

"Ann  had  dinner  in  Miss  Clench's  bedroom," 
said  Rosaline,  "  and  Tom  knew  of  it.  They  did  it 
on  the  sly  and  slipped  off.  If  you  will  excuse  me  " 
—  her  voice  shook — "I'm  going  down  there  now, 
Mrs.  Escreet.  It's  not  to  be  borne."  She  did  not 
specify  what  was  not. 

"  You  are  not  to  sing?  "  queried  Mrs.  Champion, 
really  puzzled.  She  divided  the  question  between 
them,  for  Winifred  had  risen  too,  as  though  mechan- 
ically. "  I  thought  Tom  said " 

"  I  shan't  sing  unless  I  must,"  said  Rosaline, 
breaking  in.  "Are  you  coming,  Mrs.  Escreet?" 

"  Well,  really,"  Winifred  said,  in  the  same  un- 
usual voice,  "  one  might  just  as  well  look  in  on  them, 
Grace.  There  might  be  something  going  on." 


336  HERSELF 

Perplexed,  but  still  matching  the  situation,  Mrs. 
Champion  got  up,  shaking  her  skirts  with  dignity. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  order  the  carriage  to  follow  us 
down,"  she  suggested.  "  Papa  asked  us  to  be  early. 
I  can  fetch  Tom  —  after  his  song." 

It  may  vaguely  have  occurred  to  Mrs.  Champion 
that  in  the  general  turnover  of  her  polite  and  proper 
world,  and  amid  the  fever  of  these  various  young 
women,  it  might  be  as  well  to  fetch  her  valuable  son 
away. 


XI 


MR.  CHAMPION,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to 
be  punctual  to  his  scheduled  time,  arrived  late  at 
the  Parish  Room.  It  was  entirely  owing  to  Dr. 
Gudgeon,  who  fell  into  such  an  acrimonious  argu- 
ment with  Gervase  in  the  drive,  and  grew  so  excited 
over  it,  that  he  nearly  turned  straight  back  into  the 
dining-room  to  finish  it  at  his  ease. 

They  arrived  at  the  moment  when,  having  given 
Tom  up,  the  management  —  consisting  of  the  burly 
Vicar  and  his  tired  wife  —  had  asked  Miss  Lindt  to 
play  again.  "  Just  once  more,  if  she  will  be  so 
good,"  was  the  message  conveyed  by  Harrie  to 
Bertha,  who,  voluble  and  beaming  with  excitement, 
was  spreading  herself  in  the  audience  among  the 
village  mothers.  The  form  of  the  request  indicated, 
firstly,  that  Miss  Lindt  had  been  used  rather  too 
often  during  the  evening  to  fill  gaps  in  the  pro- 
gramme; and,  secondly,  that  Miss  Lindt  was  so  far 
from  being  unwilling  to  perform,  that  the  manage- 
ment was  apprehensive  of  her  remaining  in  occupa- 


338  HERSELF 

tion  of  the  piano-chair  when  her  part  was  concluded, 
and  so  had  to  hint  at  a  possible  end  to  her  labors. 

The  audience,  however,  showed  itself  by  no 
means  tired  of  Miss  Lindt:  seeming,  indeed,  to  find 
in  her  an  endless  source  of  innocent  hilarity.  The 
heavy  village  boys  nudged  one  another,  as  they 
watched  her  antics  open-mouthed,  much  as  the  small 
schoolgirls  had  done  at  Versailles.  The  village  of 
Stackfield  was  not  quite  sure  that  she  was  not  sent 
as  a  "comic"  to  replace  Mr.  Champion:  for  Tom 
was  an  old  entertainer,  and  whatsoever  the  perform- 
ance called  itself,  concert  or  theatricals  or  bazaar, 
they  counted  on  his  being  allowed  to  give  them  at 
least  one  "  roar." 

Now,  as  Bertha,  squaring  her  elbows,  sat  down 
on  the  creaking  chair,  Dr.  Gudgeon  and  his  com- 
panions at  the  outer  door  heard  quite  a  creditable 
thumping  and  giggling  among  the  tightly  packed 
audience. 

"  Who's  up  —  the  curate?  "  Gervase  enquired  of 
the  doorkeeper,  a  former  stable-lad  of  his  own,  who 
was  now  in  the  service  of  Mrs.  Champion. 

"  No,  sir.  This  is  a  lady  as  plays.  Makes  the 
piano  hop,  she  does,  better  than  a  pianola.  You'll 
want  to  get  in,  sir,  to  watch  her." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Escreet.  "  Hearing  will  do  for 
us  —  eh,  Gudgeon?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  would,"  grunted  the 


FAROVER  939 

organist.  "When's  the  curate  coming  on,  you 
fellow?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  young  groom,  staring  in  awe 
at  this  novel  and  horrid  apparition,  "  Mr.  Finch, 
sir,  he's  having  a  rest.  You  see,  he  has  to  keep  order 
with  the  boys  as  well,  sir,  and  with  his  black  face, 
it's  difficult." 

"  So  it  would  be."  Dr.  Gudgeon  began  to  appre- 
ciate his  circumstances.  "  Here,  Champion,  what's 
your  face  like?  Black's  the  fashion  in  this  building." 

"  I  dare  say  any  strong  color  will  serve,"  said 
Tom,  at  which  the  groom-boy  began  sniggering,  for 
the  personnel  of  Risings,  at  least  the  female  part  of 
it,  were  accustomed  to  lament  Mr.  Tom's  over- 
healthy  complexion.  "How's  it  going,  Jimmie?" 
Tom  added,  for  he  felt  more  proprietorship  in  the 
concert  than  either  Gervase  or  his  guest. 

"  Well,  sir,  Mr.  Finch  he  amused  them  a  bit,  but, 
between  ourselves,  they'd  have  liked  a  few  more 
songs." 

"  Why  don't  they  ask,  then?  I  dare  say  someone 
would  oblige." 

"  Well,  sir,  fact  is,  they  don't  want  to  worry  Mrs. 
Grayling,  she's  been  taking  so  much  trouble.  Old 
Ossler,  sir,  he  told  the  boys  they  might  be  thankful 
it's  no  worse  than  it  is." 

The  critic  Gervase  appreciated  this.  "  But  Rosie 
should  have  come,"  he  murmured,  "  the  affected 


340  HERSELF 

little  monkey.  I  say,  Tom,  can't  you  go  back  and 
fetch  her?" 

"  I'm  on  next,  I  think,"  mumbled  Tom,  who  had 
more  than  an  idea  he  was  in  disgrace  with  Rosaline. 
"  When  does  this  woman  intend  to  begin?  " 

"  Miss  Clench  is  a-speaking  to  her,"  Jimmie  in- 
formed them  from  within  the  door.  "  Arguing  she 
seems,  very  lively.  Ho !  did  you  eveV  —  she's  taken 
away  the  music  now.  "there  she  goes,  sir  —  she's 
off." 

Harriet's  quick  eye  had  noticed  the  familiar 
ruddy  face  of  Mr.  Champion  at  the  door,  and  she 
had  entreated  Bertha  to  be  brief,  and  abandon  the 
lengthy  overture  she  was  preparing.  Bertha,  though 
annoyed  and  impatient,  submitted  with  a  shrug  to 
this  unreasonable  request,  and  tossed  her  score  on  to 
the  piano.  She  played  a  pair  of  character-scenes 
from  the  Schumann  Carnival,  and,  undiverted  by 
written  music,  she  set  her  whole  artistic  mind  to  con- 
quering the  freaks  of  a  third-rate  instrument  in  a 
fifth-rate  room. 

The  village  audience  creaked  and  whispered  a 
good  deal  during  the  solos,  but  neither  of  the  three 
gentlemen  moved.  Even  in  the  pause  between  the 
two  sections  —  which  was  not  long,  for  Bertha's 
hands  hung  on  the  keys  —  Dr.  Gudgeon  only  mut- 
tered his  mechanical  "  What's  this,  what's  this? " 
and  Mr.  Escreet  opined  in  a  whisper  that  he  was 


FAROVER  341 

damned.  At  the  end  of  all,  while  the  whole  room 
was  rocking  with  amused  applause,  the  second  party 
from  Farover  suddenly  arrived,  and  eifectually  dis- 
lodged the  group  in  the  doorway,  now  reduced  to 
two,  for  Tom,  summoned  by  Harrie's  eye,  had 
slipped  in  to  notify  his  arrival  to  the  management, 
and  had  sat  down  at  Miss  Clench's  side  in  the  second 
row. 

The  audience  at  once  stopped  applauding  to  gape 
and  shuffle,  for  Mrs.  Escreet  and  Miss  Rosaline 
were  the  classical  beauties  of  the  district,  and  Mrs. 
Champion  was  par  excellence  its  great  lady.  That 
these  swells  should  condescend,  with  skirts  of  sticky 
satin,  and  handsome  cloaks  hardly  concealing  their 
bare  shoulders,  to  burst  into  their  entertainment  at 
the  eleventh  hour,  was  a  thing  to  be  talked  of  long, 
and  also  accounted  for.  The  local  worthies,  always 
hopelessly  personal  where  causes  or  charities  are 
concerned,  debated  whether  the  unusual  event  was 
a  compliment  to  the  Vicar,  or  natural  interest  in  Mr. 
Tom.  All  three  ladies  were  granted  to  be  "  inter- 
ested," Rosaline  not  least,  with  that  admirable 
frankness  and  penetration  which  our  yeoman  ranks 
possess. 

"  Mr.  Tom,  Vs  answerable,"  was  the  opinion  of 
the  innkeeper's  mother-in-law.  "  Miss  Rosaline, 
she  comes  after  'im  like,  and  Mrs.  Escreet  to  keep 
her  in  countenance.  That  would  be  a  sign  they're 


848  HERSELF 

'overing,  and  we  shall  'ear  of  something  before 
we're  much  older." 

"  She  looks  like  a  bride  already,"  said  the  village 
dressmaker  to  her  sister  from  London,  "  with  those 
silvery  bugles  on  the  white." 

"  I'd  dearly  like  to  see  the  neck,"  said  the  sister, 
"  being  of  more  account  in  the  ensemble  than  waist 
and  gathers.  Perhaps  when  it  gets  hot  she'll  take 
her  cloak  off." 

"  Mr.  Tom  he's  a-talking  to  Miss  Clench,"  mur- 
mured some  younger  critic;  "Miss  Rosaline  she'll 
be  hurt." 

"  Well,"  said  the  mother-in-law,  stalwart  in 
Tom's  cause,  "  how  should  he  have  seen  Miss  Rosa- 
line, not  having  eyes  in  his  back  'air." 

Winifred,  signaling  to  the  herd  around  her  to 
keep  seated,  took  a  modest  place  behind  on  a  rush- 
chair,  and  made  room  for  Dr.  Gudgeon  beside  her. 
Dr.  Gudgeon,  on  his  part,  had  seized  Bertha  on  her 
descent  from  the  platform,  and  was  talking  to  her 
angrily  in  German.  When  it  became  impossible 
longer  to  ignore  Mrs.  Escreet's  demands  on  him,  he 
made  a  lurch,  shouldering  awkwardly  and  roughly 
to  her  side. 

"What's  that  woman  doing  in  this  galere?"  he 
demanded,  in  the  least  restrained  of  tones.  "  She 
referred  me  to  her  employers,  but  I  refer  myself  to 
you.  What  have  you  been  after,  Winifred?  " 


FAROVER  848 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking?"  said  Mrs. 
Escreet,  thankful  that  the  general  clatter  of  jubila- 
tion caused  by  Tom's  mounting  to  the  platform 
drowned  this  unpolished  address.  "  Do  you  refer  to 
the  Graylings'  governess?  " 

"You  know  best  what  she  calls  herself,  and 
where  she  lives.  I  know  what  she  is,  and  where  she 
ought  to  be ;  and  that's  on  the  public  platform.  And 
if  you  don't  pack  her  about  her  business,  and  that 
without  delay,  I  will." 

Winifred  laughed.  She  had  long  lost  the  faculty 
of  feeling  small  when  addressed  by  Dr.  Gudgeon. 
The  drawback  to  habitual  boorishness  is,  that  the 
boor  is  incapable  of  getting  his  sincere  indignation 
believed. 

"  Who  is  responsible  for  her? "  snapped  the 
Doctor.  "  Where  does  she  come  from?  " 

"  Miss  Clench  was  responsible  for  her  coming 
into  the  district  in  the  first  instance,  as  I  am  for 
Miss  Clench's  coming.  Perhaps  I  must  claim 
responsibility  after  all." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon,  "  will  you  take  her 
up  to-morrow  and  introduce  her  to  George  Harmon, 
mentioning  my  name?  " 

"  No,"  said  Winifred,  still  laughing.  "  To-mor- 
row's Sunday." 

"  Very  good.  Where's  Miss  What's-her-name?  " 
Before  his  hostess  could  stir  to  prevent  him,  he 


344  HERSELF 

raised  his  great  bulk,  disturbing  all  the  chairs  again, 
and  lurched  away  up  the  room.  He  plumped  with- 
out apology  into  the  chair  Tom  had  left  vacant  at 
Harrie's  side,  and  began  to  talk  to  her  at  once. 
Winifred  and  Rosaline,  left  desolate  and  more  irri- 
tated than  ever,  had  no  choice  but  to  attend  to  Mr. 
Champion's  "  turn  "  with  as  good  a  grace  as  might 
be. 

Tom  recited  a  poem  that  all  the  audience  knew 
by  heart,  as  could  be  seen  in  a  number  of  cases  by 
their  moving  lips.  But,  such  was  his  power  and 
popularity,  that  a  roar  of  laughter  greeted  every 
point,  as  surely  as  the  gun  replies  to  the  match,  and 
he  had  small  need  to  emphasize  the  jests  by  attitudes 
or  grimaces  —  which  things  were  not  indeed  his 
"  style."  He  then  gave  them  a  short  scene  between 
the  village  idiot  and  a  lady  canvasser,  in  which  he 
represented  both  parties,  and  his  feminine  falsetto 
arguments  were  most  naturally  rendered.  This  effort 
was  quite  new,  and  was  judged  in  conclave  after- 
wards as  the  cleverest  thing  he  had  ever  done.  At 
the  time  hardly  anybody  laughed,  owing  to  the 
effort  of  trying  to  understand,  and  the  fear  of 
"  hurting  Miss  Ann." 

Finally  Tom  pulled  himself  together  and  sang 
them  a  sea-chanty,  with  no  voice  at  all,  but  such 
heartfelt  fervor  that  they  stamped  with  rapture,  and 
called  tempestuously  for  an  encore. 


FAROVER  345 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Tom,  returning  to  his  own  char- 
acter, with  his  own  smile.  "  That's  the  first  song  I 
ever  sang,  and  I  couldn't  do  that  again,  if  you  gave 
me  all  the  collection." 

"  Sooner  restore  you  nor  the  church,  sir,"  said  a 
wit,  well  concealed  among  the  clustering  heads. 

"  That's  kind  of  you,  Ned  Challen,"  said  Tom. 
"  But  I'm  pretty  fit,  as  it  happens  —  and  younger 
than  the  church." 

There  was  general  delight  displayed  at  this  un- 
forced humor. 

"  Now,"  Tom  resumed,  studying  a  programme, 
"where  are  we?  Miss  Maskery  is  going  —  ah  — 
Mr.  Grayling  is  going  to  read  a  portion  of  the 
'  Tramp  Abroad,'  by  the  celebrated  Yankee  author 
Mark  Twain." 

"We  knows  it,"  said  a  malcontent.  "Can't 
curate  give  us  a  song*?  " 

"Yes,  a  song,  a  song,"  echoed  many,  turning 
furtive  but  greedy  eyes  to  Rosaline,  whose  white 
satin  made  her  more  desirable. 

"  With  Dr.  Gudgeon  there  in  front  I  just  won't," 
muttered  Miss  Maskery. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Winifred.  "Refuse,  it  is 
absurd." 

"  Miss  Maskery  is  entreated,"  said  Tom  from  the 
platform,  his  laughing  face  turned  to  her,  "  humbly 
entreated  to  condescend  —  ah,  no,  I  fear  it  is  use- 


346  HERSELF 

less :  Miss  Maskery  has  a  cold.  Well,  shall  we  ask 
Miss  Lindt  to  sing  to  us?  " 

This  suggestion  was  greeted  with  some  laughter, 
for  Bertha,  on  whose  neat  list  of  duties  "  accom- 
paniment "  stood  large  as  the  next  item,  had  climbed 
to  the  platform  and  reseated  herself.  She  meant  to 
go  through  with  that  accompaniment,  the  attitude 
suggested,  whether  anyone  appeared  to  sing  the  air 
attached  or  not. 

"  I  had  better  find  Mr.  Finch,"  said  Mrs.  Gray- 
ling's exhausted  tone,  as  her  thin  form  rose  at  the 
side.  "  Oh,  Miss  Clench,  if  you  would  be  so  good : 
in  the  kitchen."  For  poor  Mr.  Finch,  overcome  by 
the  incursion  of  well-dressed  ladies,  all  of  his 
acquaintance,  had  retired  to  wash  his  face. 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon, 
annoyed  at  Harriet's  moving.  "Sit  down,  you: 
nobody  wants  a  song." 

"  A  song  is  it,  or  to  turn  the  pages?  "  said  Harrie 
to  Mrs.  Grayling.  She  had  been  far  too  occupied 
in  collecting  her  unknown  ogre,  and  in  satisfying 
his  curiosity,  to  attend  to  later  events  in  the  room. 

Alas!  her  familiar  tone,  penetrating  though  low, 
awakened  Bertha,  lost  in  a  dream  on  her  music-stool. 
With  a  flash  of  that  instinct,  which  in  absent- 
minded  collectables  replaces  an  hour's  strained  atten- 
tion in  ordinary  persons,  she  swept  up  the  sentiment 
of  her  surroundings  and  incontinently,  before 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  347 

friends  and  foes  and  the  indifferent  world,  she  gave 
Harrie's  dearest  secret  away. 

"  Piano  solos  tire,"  said  Bertha,  turning  ponder- 
ously and  speaking  loud.  "  That  is  natural,  I 
understand  it.  My  friend  there,  her  sing-voice  is 
quite  good.  Harrie,  you  will  sing  for  these  so- 
worthy  people  a  little?  " 

"Oh,  Bertha!"  gasped  Harrie;  but  the  public, 
led  vigorously  by  Tom  Champion,  burst  into  ap- 
plause. Miss  Clench  was  generally  appreciated  in 
the  village,  which  liked  her  partly  for  herself,  and 
partly  because  "  Vicar  "  disapproved  of  her.  She 
was  not  now  allowed  to  protest,  and  at  every 
attempt  to  speak  she  was  drowned  by  a  new  out- 
burst. 

"  First-class,"  said  Tom,  looking  redder  than 
usual,  though  he  was  smiling.  "  Come  along,  Miss 
Clench.  You  are  given  over  to  the  lions." 

"  Well  I  never,"  said  Harrie  aloud  to  herself;  but 
she  went,  as  though  suddenly  taking  a  decision,  and 
stepped  to  the  platform  with  her  chin  up.  "  Am  I 
to  give  them  what  they  like?"  she  whispered,  with 
a  gleam  as  she  passed  Tom. 

"  Some-sing  not  great  Art,"  said  the  incorrigible 
Bertha,  as  though  responding  to  the  thought,  pound- 
ing a  few  careless  chords.  "  Just  a  little  some-sing 
that  will  speak  to  them." 

Miss  Clench  put  her  hand  behind  her,  and  sang 


348  HERSELF 

as  she  stood,  in  her  neat  plain  blouse  and  skirt  of 
the  working-girl  on  holiday.  Her  eyes  were  lev- 
eled above  the  ranks  of  friends  and  enemies.  She 
felt  her  will  tighten,  the  more  for  knowing  the 
Escreets  and  Dr.  Gudgeon  in  her  audience.  She 
would  give  them  what  they  liked,  her  friends  the 
simple  folk,  at  the  command  of  Bertha,  her  inti- 
mate; and  all  her  roguish  adaptable  Irish  nature 
came  to  her  aid.  All  that  can  be  urged  in  her 
defence  to  such  as  may  condemn  her  proceeding,  is 
that  through  her  whole  career  at  Farover,  it  was  the 
only  conscious  revenge  she  ever  took. 

She  sang  —  knowing  Mrs.  Escreet  detested  it  — 
the  "  Last  Rose  of  Summer  " ;  lingering  lusciously 
over  every  sentimental  phrase.  She  let  out  as  much 
voice  as  she  thought  the  room  would  stand,  and 
articulated  every  syllable  clearly.  She  was  not  at 
all  correct,  and  knew  it.  She  broke  the  time  and 
altered  the  words.  She  lingered  on  the  high  note, 
until  anyone  would  have  sworn  the  breath  in  her 
little  body  must  give  out,  and  Bertha,  that  admir- 
able artist,  followed  her  in  almost  audible  protest. 
Not  content  even  with  this  enormity,  she  transposed 
the  whole  phrase  an  octave  higher  in  the  last  verse, 
singing  with  the  "  little  voice  "  that  was  even  more 
delicate  and  touching  than  the  big.  She  was,  in 
short,  all  that  Winifred  thought  contemptible,  and 
all  that  Mrs.  Champion  called  unrefined. 


FAROVER  349 

Only,  the  village  audience  loved  her,  and  the  men 
—  gentlemen,  yeomen,  and  boors  alike  —  fell  at  her 
little  feet.  Both  things,  it  must  be  contended,  were 
the  immediate  consequence  of  being  born  a  Clench, 
and  had  really  very  little  to  do  with  singing  at  all. 

"  Delicious,"  gasped  the  purist  Gervase  from  his 
wife's  side,  pushing  forward  quite  unconsciously  to 
be  nearer  to  her  who  sang. 

"  By  God,  what  a  voice,"  swore  the  boor 
Gudgeon,  caring  no  whit  that  he  should  be  over- 
heard and  condemned,  whether  by  his  hostess  or  the 
Vicar  who  stood  near. 

"If  that  isn't  as  fine  as  the  big  gramophone  in  the 
shop  at  Abingdon,"  said  the  innkeeper's  mother-in- 
law,  wiping  her  eyes,  which  were  running  over  with 
real  tears.  "  And  sweet  she  looked  while  she  was 
doing  it  so  easy  all  the  time." 


XII 


WHETHER  the  sentiment  in  Winifred  inimical  to 
Miss  Clench  was  strengthened  by  the  foregoing 
scene,  I  leave  it  to  such  as  now  know  her  to  judge. 
Harrie,  who  had  faced  her  on  almost  every  other 
territory,  had  dared  to  face  her  now  on  ground  that 
was  her  peculiar  property.  She  had  stepped  within 
the  ring,  and  the  queen  of  that  ring  could  no  longer 
even  pretend  to  be  indifferent.  All  Sunday  long, 
Dr.  Gudgeon,  the  great  musician  of  her  world,  the 
final  court  of  appeal  in  artistry,  who  had  guided  and 
approved  her  own  career,  would  do  nothing  but  talk 
to  Harriet,  or  wanting  her,  talk  about  Bertha  Lindt. 
Harrie,  he  said  carelessly,  had  time  before  her,  but 
Bertha  was  an  immediate  responsibility.  He  in- 
tended to  carry  her  off  with  him  to  Oxford,  and,  if 
she  could  stand  the  tests  he  applied,  summon  her  to 
meet  him  in  London  the  following  week.  At  inter- 
vals during  the  day  of  rest  he  spent  at  Farover  he 
flew  to  the  writing-table  to  scrawl  off  notes  to  vari- 
ous eminent  persons:  some,  as  Winifred  gathered, 
containing  songs  of  triumph  merely,  others  to  put 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  351 

off  the  engagements  that  were  too  important  to  be 
blankly  disregarded,  during  the  period  he  proposed 
to  devote  to  his  newest  interest;  and  all  of  them  cal- 
culated to  infuriate  in  the  highest  degree  such 
correspondents  as  might  be  able  to  decipher  the 
communication. 

All  this  was  bad,  but  there  was  worse  for 
Mrs.  Escreet  to  bear.  Rosaline,  her  little  protegee, 
was  angry  and  miserable:  furious  with  frank 
jealousy,  miserable  at  Tom's  desertion,  for  she  would 
regard  his  friendly  attentions  to  Harriet  as  no  less. 
And  was  that  all,  even^  Winifred  would  have 
asserted  that  was  all,  and  no  doubt  she  endeavored 
to  think  so;  but  she  watched  her  husband  like  a 
lynx,  and  the  sole  reason  she  had  for  encouraging 
the  stout  organist  to  remain  at  Miss  Clench's  side 
was  that  she  was  thus  secure  Gervase  could  not  be 
in  his  seat. 

She  had  never  even  faintly  doubted  him  before, 
amiable  and  soft-hearted  as  he  was.  She  had  never 
even  thought  of  his  turning  from  her,  so  one  they 
were  in  heart  and  mind.  The  dread  worm  jealousy 
is  most  intolerable  when  it  first  crawls  in;  for  no 
unwarned  owner,  who  has  claims  to  culture  and 
education,  will  recognize  the  inhabitant.  The  un- 
easiness is  nerves,  fatigue,  irritability  —  anything 
but  that  shame  of  shames;  and  Mrs.  Escreet  fought 
even  the  consciousness  for  long.  But  the  awakening 


35S  HERSELF 

came  within  one  week  of  May,  and  that  week  shook 
Harriet  out  of  Farover. 

Miss  Clench  was  not  happy  in  the  interval,  as 
may  be  understood.  Unused  to  the  soft  riverside 
climate,  she  was  not  even  well.  Her  customary 
pallor  grew  more  marked,  and  there  were  rings 
about  her  eyes.  She  was  teased  with  anxiety  about 
Pat,  who  did  not  answer  her  letters  to  BlufTborough, 
despatched  eagerly  as  soon  as  term  began;  and 
Geoff ry,  now  busy  staging  his  new  play  in  London 
had  also  ceased  writing  in  the  press  of  business  and 
new  cares. 

"  She  has  left  that,"  thought  Winifred,  noticing 
the  cessation  of  masculine  correspondence.  "  No 
doubt  she  thinks  she  has  better  game  at  hand  down 
here."  Now  a  year  since,  so  vulgar  a  thought  could 
never  have  occurred  to  Mrs.  Escreet:  a  fact  betray- 
ing how  we  degenerate  under  the  thousand  thorn- 
pricks  of  rivalry. 

As  to  Harriet,  she  no  longer  felt  the  slightest  im- 
pulse to  confide  in  her  father's  friend,  still  less  in 
the  friend's  husband.  She  was  formal  with  Wini- 
fred, and  business-like  with  Gervase,  whose  book, 
owing  chiefly  to  the  secretary's  strenuous  efforts,  was 
really  advancing.  But  as  it  advanced,  he  lost  inter- 
est in  it,  as  it  seemed;  he  preferred  to  talk  of  any 
trifle,  and  frequently  tried  to  divert  his  assistant  to 
conversation  in  work-time;  but  Harriet  was  always 


FAROVER  353 

cold.  The  result  of  her  little  snubs  was  that  the 
author  became  low-spirited,  and  even  lazier  than 
before;  and  once  he  betrayed  a  temper  with  which 
she  had  not  credited  him,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

Of  Tom  Champion  she  saw  little,  except  on  the 
discreet  occasions  he  seized  to  give  her  news.  Dur- 
ing Ann's  absence  in  a  northern  town,  Tom  had  his 
hands  fuller  than  before,  the  more  so  that  he  was 
himself  chosen  as  candidate  in  an  adjoining  county. 
He  pursued  Harrie's  quest  in  all  his  leisure  time, 
and  was  most  clever  in  communicating  by  all  means 
that  should  least  annoy  Rosaline.  Indeed,  he  was 
so  sensible  in  managing  his  own  affair,  and  tiding 
over  Miss  Maskery's  determined  efforts  to  quarrel 
with  him,  that  the  village  mothers  in  consultation, 
and  Hester  and  Marion  in  the  kitchen,  agreed  that 
he  would  make  an  uncommon  good  husband  when 
he  had  her,  which  they  supposed  he  would. 

Ann's  letters  were  Harrie's  greatest  consolation, 
and  often  Tom's  news  and  messages  came  to  her  by 
that  safe  channel.  A  letter  of  Ann's  in  the  second 
week  of  May  carried  the  information  that  Tom  had 
been  down  himself  to  Bluffborough,  with  an  intro- 
duction to  the  headmaster  of  the  school  from  a  com- 
mon friend.  He  just  missed  Mr.  Geoff ry  Horn, 
who  had  gone  there  as  soon  as  the  school  met,  it 
seemed,  on  the  same  errand.  They  found  Mr.  Wynne 


354  HERSELF 

in  perplexity,  for  his  vagrant  drawing-master  had 
not  communicated,  nor  had  he  come  back  to  his 
lodging.  With  the  exception  of  his  heavy  painting 
apparatus  and  some  small  unfinished  models,  the 
properties  Morough  had  left  behind  were  of  no 
value ;  so  if  he  had  intended  to  elope,  there  was  little 
reason  for  him  to  fetch  them.  Mr.  Wynne  had  a 
candidate  for  his  post  in  view,  and  was  only  pre- 
vented from  filling  it  permanently  by  the  idea  the 
truant  might  be  ill.  As  to  his  illness,  it  emerged  that 
a  local  doctor,  not  connected  with  the  school,  had 
condemned  his  lungs  —  for  it  was  no  less  than  the 
scourge  of  his  native  island  that  threatened  him; 
but  he  had  been  advised  to  see  a  specialist,  and  had 
been  given  some  good  addresses. 

The  only  effect  of  this  information  was  to  add 
tenfold  to  Harriet's  anxiety.  Pat  had  hidden  for 
one  of  two  causes  surely,  serious  illness  or  serious 
offence:  and  either  was  wearing  to  think  of,  for  his 
little  cousin's  mind  and  heart. 

"  I  love  him,"  she  repeated  angrily  to  herself  by 
night  and  day,  as  the  defiant  spirit  came  uppermost. 
"  He  is  mine  and  I  love  him,  for  I  have  no  other. 
How  could  he  go  away  from  me  like  that,  and  me 
caring  for  him  as  he  knew  I  did?  " 

The  one  idea  that  never  tormented  her,  most 
curiously,  was  that  of  the  boy's  hopeless  love.  True, 
he  had  made  love  to  her  in  excitement  on  the  Pont 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  355 

des  Arts,  but  so  would  any  Clench  have  done.  It 
had  no  meaning  of  necessity  beyond  the  moment. 
It  was  Harrie's  misfortune  that,  devoting  herself 
readily  in  the  common  human  manner  of  brother- 
hood, she  did  not  know  when  she  was  loved.  She 
went  easily  ahead  with  her  arms  out,  till  the  other 
love  that  is  of  all  passions  exclusive,  single  minded 
and  narrowly  selfish,  smote  her  in  the  face.  It  was 
not  till  the  very  last  of  the  lover's  month  that  she 
took  the  buffets,  each  in  order,  and  stood  appalled 
at  the  havoc  she  had  created  in  three  hearts. 

The  weather  was  cold  and  wet  in  the  early  part  of 
May,  and  promised  ill  for  the  Oxford  festival;  but 
when  the  week  of  boat  races  actually  arrived,  there 
seemed  good  hope  of  a  change.  The  sun  at  times 
broke  through  those  chill  river  mists,  that  seemed 
eating  the  heart  out  of  Harriet's  determined  hope- 
fulness, and  with  the  sun  she  could  try  to  rediscover 
her  lost  capacity  of  enjoyment. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  races  Winifred  was  to  join 
forces  with  the  Champions  for  a  river  picnic;  and 
the  week  following  she  gave  her  yearly  select  little 
dance.  The  Escreets  possessed  both  a  rowing-boat 
and  a  canoe ;  but  the  nearest  point  of  the  river-curve 
was  at  twenty  minutes'  distance,  and  through  sheer 
laziness  the  boat-house  often  lay  neglected  for 
months  in  succession.  Only  once,  on  a  rare  fine  day, 
Harrie  had  been  taken  out  in  the  canoe  by  Rosaline ; 


356  HERSELF 

and  it  had  been  just  enough  to  awaken  her  curiosity 
in  the  sly  old  serpent  of  Thames,  and  to  stamp  its 
charm  forever  on  her  imagination. 

On  this  occasion  the  Escreets  had  determined 
rather  sadly  to  do  for  once  the  proper  thing,  having 
endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  Mrs.  Champion  and 
her  sons  that  the  river,  always  too  popular  and 
populous  a  resort,  was  more  tolerable  at  any  time  of 
the  year  rather  than  during  this  particular  week. 
Mrs.  Champion,  well  in  the  fashion,  thought  other- 
wise, but  agreed  on  pressure  to  the  Escreet  provi- 
sions, first  to  make  it  a  lunch  picnic,  and  secondly, 
to  go  no  higher  in  the  Oxford  direction  than  Iffley 
Lock;  for  just  beyond  that  point,  where  the  race 
started  up-stream  to  Oxford,  the  common  traffic 
of  pleasure-craft  was  bound  to  begin.  Rosaline 
Maskery  was  to  meet  them  at  Iffley,  the  nearest 
point  to  her  home ;  and  Mr.  Champion  had  promised 
to  fetch  her;  for  Tom  had,  for  the  exact  space  of  a 
week,  foresworn  politics,  in  order  to  devote  himself 
entirely  to  the  severe  task  of  shouting  his  ancient 
college  back  to  a  place  it  had  lost  at  the  head  of  the 
river. 

All  was  planned  to  a  nicety,  the  most  exquisite  of 
portable  food  was  prepared,  and  when  the  morning 
of  the  Wednesday  dawned  with  a  gleam  of  sun, 
Winifred  had  reason  to  flatter  herself  that  this  un- 
usually "busy"  day  might  go  through  without  a 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  357 

hitch.  She  had  never  hitherto  considered  that  her 
own  frame  of  mind,  or  that  of  her  husband,  could 
affect  the  passage  of  a  day's  pleasuring,  for  their 
tranquil  receptive  condition  of  spirit  was  normal, 
and  little  could  ever  occur  to  disturb  them  severely. 
It  was  unforeseen,  and  owing  to  no  fault  at  all  of 
Winifred's,  that  to-day  her  temper  should  be  ruffled 
before  starting. 

Miss  Clench  came  to  her  in  the  study,  extending 
a  letter,  and  with  some  slight  color  in  her  face.  "  I 
opened  this  by  an  oversight,"  she  said,  "  thinking  it 
one  of  mine." 

Winifred  stared  at  her  and  took  the  letter,  which 
was  signed  by  an  important  personage,  Mr.  Geoffry 
Horn,  whose  acquaintance  Gervase  had  lately  made 
in  London.  It  was  merely  the  acceptance  of  an  in- 
vitation she  had  sent  him,  begging  him  to  spare  them 
a  week-end  visit  in  early  June.  It  was  all  formal 
and  ordinary,  as  she  glanced  it  through,  but  for  a 
line  added  after  the  signature. 

"  I  believe  a  young  acquaintance  of  mine,  Miss 
Harriet  Clench,  is  staying  with  you.  Will  you 
remember  me  to  her,  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  her 
again." 

"  Oh,  he  is  that  sort  of  person,  is  he1?  "  said  the 
voice  in  Winifred,  all  unconscious.  She  only  said 
coldly  aloud :  "  Did  you  see  there  was  a  message 
for  you?  " 


358  HERSELF 

"  I  saw  my  name,"  said  Harrie,  biting  her  lip. 
"  I  am  sure  I  am  sorry,"  she  added.  "It  is  lucky  it 
is  nothing  more  important." 

Winifred  answered  nothing,  and  laid  the  letter 
aside. 

"  When  did  you  meet  him*?  "  she  said. 

"  In  Paris  —  twice." 

"  And  you  expect  letters  from  him,"  Winifred  re- 
flected. "  That  would  seem  rather  a  brisk  way  of 
doing  business,  in  more  ordinary  circles.  Well," 
she  said,  "  I  suppose  you  will  be  here  when  he 
comes." 

"  I  was  wondering,"  said  Harriet,  as  though  forc- 
ing herself  to  speak,  "  if  you  would  want  me  to  stay 
beyond  the  end  of  the  month." 

«  Oh  —  why  not?  "  said  Winifred. 

"  Because  if  you  do  not,  I  must  be  trying  for  an- 
other situation,"  the  girl  said  simply.  "  I  did  not 
like  to  do  it  without  telling  you." 

"  What  sort  of  situation  are  you  thinking  of  *?  " 

"  I  might  take  up  teaching  again.  I  have  been 
wondering,"  said  Harrie,  "  if  Mrs.  Grayling  would 
take  me  when  Bertha  goes.  But  perhaps  you  would 
sooner  have  me  right  away." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  reason  you  have  for  think- 
ing so,"  said  Winifred,  more  annoyed  than  ever. 
"  Nor  had  I  heard  that  Fraiilein  Lindt  was  to  leave 
the  Vicarage." 


PAROVER  359 

"  Well,"  said  Harriet,  "  Dr.  Gudgeon  has  been 
writing  to  her,  and  wants  to  fetch  her  to  London 
soon,  to  play  to  a  concert  manager.  If  she  got  an 
engagement  to  play,  of  course  she  would  like  it  best, 
for  she's  in  no  sense  a  teacher,  really." 

"  You  recommended  her  as  such,  I  understood." 

"  For  want  of  better,"  said  Harrie.  She  pro- 
ceeded with  a  new  effort.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Grayling 
would  have  me  for  Muriel :  and  her  husband " 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  said  Winifred,  looking 
down  at  her  clasped  hands,  "  that  I  am  quite  certain 
Mrs.  Grayling  will  not  have  you,  so  you  may  dismiss 
the  idea." 

"  Cannot  you  speak  for  me  to  him4?  "  said  Harrie, 
catching  her  lip  with  her  teeth.  "  And  don't  you 
see  that  if  you  cannot  —  if  you  believe  the  worst  of 
me  —  I  ought  to  go  away^  " 

At  that  instant  and  in  a  flash,  Winifred  Escreet's 
true  self  believed  and  knew  her  innocence.  It  was 
only  a  flash,  and  then  the  deceiving  curtains  of 
jealousy  dropped  again. 

"  I  believe  nothing  against  you  till  it  is  proved," 
she  said.  "  It  may,  however,  be  the  part  of  discre- 
tion to  leave  us  in  June  if  you  desire  it.  You  could 
not  begin  to  teach  before  the  autumn.  It  is  simply 
my  opinion,  not  my  wish,  that  you  will  not  get  a 
post  at  the  Vicarage.  I  have  known  Frederick  Gray- 
ling long,  and  he  is  not  a  man  of  pliable  temper  or 


360  HERSELF 

easy  views.  However,  if  they  had  no  one  else 
in  mind,"  she  added,  "I  would  see  what  I  could 
do." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Harrie:  ending  this  inter- 
view as  she  had  that  old  one  with  her  schoolmistress, 
gratitude  on  her  lips  and  despair  in  her  heart.  She 
would  have  to  face  the  Vicar  in  person  and  have  it 
out,  she  decided:  and  being  still  very  young,  she 
dreaded  the  necessity. 

Thus  it  arrived  that  Mrs.  Escreet  had  not  control 
of  her  best  manners  at  the  moment  of  embarcation; 
and  Miss  Clench  was  pale  with  a  headache.  She  did 
not  look  forward  to  a  day  she  would  enjoy,  and  the 
relentless  sun-glitter  on  the  level  reaches  seemed  to 
increase  the  troubled  dazzle  of  her  senses.  The  ease 
of  the  party  was  further  damped  by  the  presence 
of  Eustace  Champion,  an  impeccable  Eton  youth  of 
sixteen,  who  seemed  to  inspire  the  whole  of  his 
family  with  awe.  Gervase  alone  endeavored  quite 
fruitlessly,  to  tease  him,  and  nobody  attempted 
to  snub.  He  sculled  in  Winifred's  boat  with  lan- 
guid elegance,  pending  the  arrival  of  his  brother 
Tom:  and  made  conversation  with  her  by  the  way, 
his  mother  throwing  in  an  occasional  respectful  ob- 
servation. Only  when  the  talk  turned  on  Tom's 
new  constituency  he  was  silent,  watching  the  river 
with  a  thoughtful  smile;  for  Eustace  differed  with 
his  family  on  politics,  though  he  was  always  ready 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  361 

to  conceal  the  misfortune  from  them  as  far  as 
possible. 

The  exquisite  youth  took  in  Harrie  very  com- 
pletely: for  she  and  Mr.  Escreet  in  the  light  canoe 
kept  easily  alongside  the  larger  craft.  Most  girls  on 
the  river  wore  white,  Eustace  reflected,  or  some  of 
those  lacy  things  with  pink  beneath;  he  supposed 
this  one  was  in  mourning  suddenly,  and  had  not  had 
time  to  order  better  clothes.  She  was  quite  decent 
to  look  at,  and  he  could  not  see  why  his  mother 
talked  of  her  in  that  way.  He  would  seize  a  chance, 
he  thought,  when  the  party  should  scatter  on  the 
bank,  to  see  what  she  was  really  good  for. 

"  Oh,"  said  Harriet,  at  a  bend  of  the  river. 
"What's  that  church?" 

"  That's  Iffley,  the  goal  of  our  ambitions,"  said 
Gervase.  "  Dear  me,  I  suppose  you  must  see  over 
it:  how  painful." 

"  It  doesn't  look  so  ugly,"  said  Harriet  at  leisure. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  architectural  wonders  of  Eng- 
land," said  Gervase,  "  and  that  is  the  painful  part. 
Win,"  he  called,  "  I  have  realized,  in  looking  about 
me,  a  duty  for  Harri-et.  Let  us  put  it  off  as  long 
as  possible." 

"  If  you  refer  to  the  church,"  said  Winifred,  "  We 
will  solve  the  problem  by  camping  out  of  reach  down 
here.  Tom  and  Rosie  cannot  be  across  just  yet." 

"  I  mean  to  see  it,"  said  Harrie  serenely.    "  You'll 


362  HERSELF 

put  me  out  on  the  path,  Mr.  Escreet,  and  I'll  go 
along  and  over  the  bridge." 

"  I  want  you  to  make  the  salad,  Gervase,"  called 
Winifred  clearly,  turning  her  head,  for  the  canoe 
had  shot  across  the  river  away  from  them. 

"  Eustace  has  the  latest  French  recipe  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,"  Mr.  Escreet  called  back. 

"I'll  go,  if  you  want  him,"  observed  Eustace, 
hanging  on  his  sculls. 

"  You  won't,"  said  his  mother,  with  decision. 

"  What's  showing?  "  laughed  Harrie.  "  I've  eyes 
of  my  own.  A  bientot." 

She  sprang  out  as  the  canoe  reached  the  bank, 
so  lightly  as  barely  to  shake  it,  but  giving  it  a  gentle 
push  backwards  as  she  did  so;  then,  her  head  held 
high  as  ever,  she  walked  off  alone  along  the  path. 

Ten  minutes  later  Miss  Clench,  Rosaline,  and 
Tom  came  back  from  the  direction  of  the  bridge  to- 
gether. Harriet  and  Rosaline,  side  by  side,  presented 
a  somewhat  odd  contrast:  the  one  pale  and  sable- 
clad,  the  other  radiant  and  vigorous,  in  a  transparent 
blue  muslin  gown,  that  Eustace's  eagle  eye  could 
thoroughly  approve.  Tom  was  ruddy  and  serene  as 
usual,  a  figure  of  healthy  simplicity  well  suited  by 
his  summer  flannels. 

"Well,  you  have  worked  through  the  Norman 
period  in  record  time,"  said  Gervase,  when  the  trio 
appeared  in  the  picnic  field. 


FAROVER  368 

"  I  didn't  see  it,"  said  Harrie  briefly.  "  I'll  go 
later  perhaps  if  there  is  a  chance." 

"  Tom  was  quite  ready  to  take  her,"  said  Rosa- 
line at  full  pitch,  "  when  we  met  on  the  bridge,  but 
she  suddenly  refused  to  go  on.  I  told  her  she 
would  find  heaps  of  other  Americans  there.  There 
always  are  in  Eights  week." 

Mrs.  Champion's  eyes  met  Mrs.  Escreet's.  They 
could  not  quite  fathom  Miss  Clench's  proceeding  in 
thus  markedly  avoiding  male  society.  She  looked 
thoroughly  depressed  now,  and  sat  on  a  rushy  bank 
with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees,  watching 
the  water.  She  was  negligible,  or  at  least  neglected; 
and  Rosaline,  dropping  into  the  place  of  honor  at 
Mr.  Escreet's  side,  easily  established  herself  as  the 
queen  of  the  entertainment. 

The  picnic  passed  like  any  other  picnic,  Eustace 
and  the  ladies  doing  most  of  the  talking.  At  about 
three  o'clock  Winifred,  who  had  watched  with  dis- 
approval the  gradual  arrival  of  other  lively  camping- 
parties,  ejected  one  by  one  through  the  swirling 
portals  of  the  lock  that  closed  their  view,  decided  to 
return  home  early,  and  entertain  the  Vicar  at  tea. 
So  she  and  her  husband  departed  in  the  canoe,  and 
Mrs.  Champion  accepted  the  charge  of  the  young 
party  that  remained.  The  plan  suited  her,  for  she 
had  not  yet  accomplished  her  set  purpose  of  a  private 
talk  with  Rosaline,  in  the  course  of  which  it  was  her 


364  HERSELF 

intention  to  lay  before  the  prospective  governess 
some  of  the  general  principles  of  Risings  Hall.  Miss 
Maskery,  suspicious  of  this  design,  had  avoided  her 
as  long  as  possible;  and  when,  towards  four  o'clock, 
she  felt  Champion  principles  closing  in  upon  her,  she 
determined  suddenly  that  she  wished  to  see  the  race 
start,  and  ordered  Tom  to  escort  her  thither. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  running  with  the  second 
eight,"  said  Mr.  Champion,  standing  before  her  and 
looking  away  across  the  fields.  "  I  wondered  if, 
before  I  go,  Miss  Clench  would  like  to  see  the  church. 
Then  we  could  all  go  down  to  the  start  together,  eh, 
Rosaline?  Because  I  am  sure  that  would  interest 
her  too.  She  has  never  seen  a  boatrace." 

His  quiet  persistence  suggested  that  he  thought 
Miss  Clench  left  out  of  it,  as  indeed  she  had  been 
all  the  day.  The  two  men  and  the  boy  each  claimed 
by  a  watchful  female,  there  was  nobody  necessarily 
attached  to  her;  and  she  was  certainly  not  in  her 
usual  social  form,  as  Rosaline  had  already  remarked 
to  Tom. 

"  Miss  Maskery  must  know  the  church  by  heart," 
objected  Mrs.  Champion;  "living  close  by  as  she 
has  done  for  years.  Suppose  you  go  on,  Tom,  the 
three  of  you,  and  Miss  Maskery  will  bring  me  along 
slower  in  a  fashion  that  befits  my  years."  Like  all 
ladies  fond  of  using  this  phrase,  Tom's  mother  was 
very  well-preserved  and  handsome,  her  ample  up- 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  365 

standing  figure  looking  its  best  in  a  summer  uniform 
of  clean  brown  linen,  at  once  more  elegant  and 
appropriate  than  Rosaline's  finery. 

So  the  three  went  on,  and  Rosaline  stayed, 
unable  equally  to  approve  the  arrangement,  or  pro- 
test. Eustace's  presence  might  be  considered  as  a 
safeguard,  of  course,  if  the  girl  wanted  to  flirt;  but 
the  best  safeguard  was  the  limited  time,  for  Tom 
was  not  the  man  to  fail  his  college  boat;  and  even 
granted  the  most  practised  coquette,  not  much,  in 
Rosaline's  view,  could  be  done  with  half  an  hour. 

Iffley  churchyard  was  deserted,  as  Mr.  Champion 
had  hoped.  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise,  within 
a  bare  half -hour  of  that  pretty  river  contest,  which 
on  a  fine  day  draws  within  the  limit  of  its  one-mile 
course  the  whole  of  Oxford,  and  half  London 
society.  The  festive  echoes  of  many  voices,  cries 
and  exclamations,  with  an  occasional  gay  light 
laugh  from  the  boats  moored  along  the  bank,  came 
up  to  them  even  in  the  church  enclosure;  but  those 
sounds  were  all  within  the  magic  mile,  and  they 
were  safe  without  it. 

The  boy  Eustace,  happy  in  his  own  conceit,  and 
delighted  with  his  companion,  argued  and  jested 
the  whole  way  along  the  strip  of  path,  and  over  the 
mill-bridge.  He  would  fain  have  lingered  there,  to 
watch  the  congregation  on  the  bank,  and  to  dis- 


366  HERSELF 

tinguish  the  distant  flags  for  Miss  Clench's  benefit; 
but  Tom,  with  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  pushed 
him  on. 

"  We  have  not  long,"  he  explained,  rather  ab- 
sently, and  hardly  glancing  at  the  boats.  Eustace 
acquiesced  with  easy  civility;  and  when  they  had 
climbed  up  to  the  church,  escorted  Harrie  round  the 
exterior,  and  pointed  out  the  details  of  carved  work 
she  had  to  admire,  Miss  Clench,  though  wondering 
a  little  at  Tom's  silence,  had  leisure  to  note  how  the 
Escreet  manner  seemed  to  be  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
even  in  the  case  of  these  exceedingly  young  men  who 
carried  the  laurels  of  their  public  schools.  Eustace 
seemed  to  have  nearly  as  much  information  as  Ger- 
vase  would  have  had  about  these  Normans  and  their 
history,  their  methods  and  their  tools,  but  he  pre- 
ferred at  any  minute  to  conceal  his  knowledge  with 
a  jest  rather  than  to  exhibit  it. 

"  You  seem  to  imagine  I  know  something," 
Harriet  protested  at  last.  "  I  wish  you  would  start 
at  the  beginning,  and  say  what  Normans  were  doing 
here  at  all,  promiscuously  around  an  English 
university." 

The  boy  gave  her  one  look,  unable  to  believe  she 
did  not  know. 

"  Why  shouldn't  they,"  he  said,  "  if  they  liked 
the  view?"  He  added  after  an  interval,  "I  don't 
suppose  it  ever  occurred  to  a  builder,  when  he  hacked 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  367 

his  finger  on  this  church,  that  their  blood  was  of  any 
value." 

"  I  have  heard  of  their  blood,"  admitted  Harrie. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Eustace  in  haste,  "  there  is 
bound  to  be  some  in  America  too.  One  often  forgets 
that.  We  haven't  got  any  really,  though  our  name 
begins  with  '  Champ,'  and  my  mother  would  like 
to  get  it  believed.  She  made  a  good  effort  at  it 
when  she  gave  me  a  French  name.  Do  you  think 
blood  matters,  Miss  Clench*?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  the  Irishwoman.  "  I  think  it  is  the 
only  thing  that  does  matter,  where  you  come  from." 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  said  Eustace,  with  disapproval.  "  I 
should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  a -demo- 
crat." The  democratic  spirit  his  tone  suggested,  was 
the  very  latest,  the  inevitable  finish  to  a  modern 
education. 

"  And  what  have  I  said  to  make  you  stop  thinking 
it?"  she  demanded. 

"  Oh,"  the  boy  said,  "  ancestral  and  all  that. 
That's  the  aristocratic  line,  which  Tom  revels  in, 
and  we  have  got  to  knock  on  the  head." 

"  You  can  knock  me,"  said  Miss  Clench  meekly, 
sitting  on  a  tombstone.  "  But  you'll  knock  a  good 
democrat,  I  warn  you." 

They  had  retreated  to  a  distance,  when  this  part 
of  the  dialogue  took  place,  to  get  a  fair  view  of 
the  beautiful  little  building.  There  was  ample  room 


368  HERSELF 

to  retreat,  in  the  quiet  space  behind  the  church,  grave 
with  worn  mossy  stones  and  aged  yews,  and  hemmed 
in  on  all  sides  with  gray  walls  except  towards  the 
river.  Arriving  in  this  haven,  Tom  Champion  drew 
a  breath,  and  then  deliberately  wiped  his  brow;  for 
he  appeared  heated  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
warmth  of  the  fine  May  evening.  After  that,  for  the 
first  time  he  took  a  good  look  at  his  companions ;  and 
setting  one  foot  on  a  prostrate  stone,  said  to  the  boy : 

"  That  will  do,  Eustace;  you  can  go." 

Eustace  stood  absolutely  transfixed  a  moment,  cut 
short  in  a  fluent  phrase,  his  mouth  half -open.  He 
was  twice  as  clever  as  Tom,  and  had  been  showing 
particularly  well  with  this  admirable  girl,  who  did 
not  snub  him  as  Miss  Maskery  did,  and  yet  seemed 
in  wit  fully  worthy  of  the  best  efforts  he  could  make 
to  divert  her. 

"  What?  "  he  said  incredulously. 

"  Wait  for  us,  will  you,  at  the  gate?  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  brother's  look,  or 
gesture.  Mr.  Eustace  Champion  incontinently 
turned,  and  walked  off  among  the  gravestones. 

"  Well,"  commented  Miss  Clench.  "  If  that's  not 
severe,  when  he  was  explaining  everything  so 
nicely." 

"  I  had  to,"  said  Tom,  still  showing  redder  than 
usual.  "  I  had  had  enough." 

"  Does  he  always  obey  you  so  well*?  " 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  369 

"  Yes,  when  I  mean  it.  He  is  not,"  said  Mr. 
Champion,  with  a  glance  in  his  younger' s  wake, 
"  such  a  rotter  as  he  looks.  Miss  Clench,  it's  not 
about  Eustace  that  I  want  to  speak." 

"  Business?  "  queried  Harrie. 

"  Not  that  even.  I  can  do  no  more  for  the  time. 
I  am  not,"  said  Tom,  "  even  thinking  of  you;  I  am 
afraid,  but  only  of  myself." 

"  You're  in  trouble,"  said  Harrie,  leaning  forward 
and  clasping  her  hands,  her  eyes  quick  to  read  the 
signs  on  his  face.  "  If  there  was  the  smallest  thing 
I  could  do  for  you,  in  return  for  the  trouble  you 
have  taken,  I  would  just  thank  you  to  ask  me." 

"  The  thing  I  have  to  ask,"  said  Tom,  "  is  already, 
I  fear,  impossible." 

He  was  so  quiet  that  even  now,  at  close  quarters 
as  they  were  in  the  level  evening  light,  she  did  not 
suspect.  She  thought  it  was  merely  some  confidence 
as  to  his  family  affairs,  which  he  found  difficult  to 
broach  before  his  brother. 

"It's  lovely  here,"  she  said  to  give  him  leisure, 
"  with  these  black  trees.  This  is  the  place  where  a 
poet  could  write  — in  praise  of  peace."  An  old 
memory  came  back  to  her  as  she  said  it,  and  her  eyes 
were  wistful  and  soft. 

"  Is  peace  what  you  wish*?  "  said  Tom;  and  now 
his  tone  showed  the  inner  torment. 

"  It  should  not  be,"  said  Harrie,  "  but  indeed  I 


370  HERSELF 

think  it  will  soon  be  that.  Only  do  not,"  she  added, 
looking  sweetly  up  at  him,  "  fear  to  tell  me  trouble 
because  of  my  peace.  I  have  not  yet  got  it  nearly, 
and  you  cannot  disturb  what  is  not  there." 

"  If  I  thought  what  I  had  to  say  could  disturb 
you,"  said  Tom,  "  could  make  you  suffer  in  any  way, 
I  would  leave  it  forever  unsaid.  You  have  only  to 
tell  me  to  stop,  Harriet.  Before  heaven,  you  have 
suffered  already  enough." 

She  jerked  her  head  back  from  him,  when  he 
spoke  her  name;  she  looked  not  at  him,  but  over 
his  head  at  the  church  tower  —  for  he  had  dropped 
half-kneeling  now  to  reach  her  level,  a  white  figure 
in  the  deep  glossy  grass.  Her  look  was  fearful  pro- 
test, and  one  little  hand  was  raised  as  though  to 
avert  the  storm. 

And,  seeing  that  signal,  the  man  made  a  valiant 
effort  to  hold  himself,  to  keep  the  storm  that 
ravaged  him  from  reaching  and  scorching  her 
where  she  sat.  It  flashed  in  the  one  phrase,  "  I  love 
you,"  and  for  the  rest,  his  strong  hands  tore  the 
grass. 

In  the  pause,  eternal  to  Tom,  that  ensued,  a 
pistol-shot  rent  the  wide  river-silences  beyond  them 
—  the  first  warning  of  the  start. 

"  Leave  me,"  said  Harrie  when  she  had  got  her 
breath;  and  her  eyes  came  down  to  his. 

"No  more?" 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  371 

"Yes.  Leave  me  —  and  go  and  ask  Rosaline. 
She's  waiting  for  you  down  there." 

Tom  bowed  his  head,  accepting.     "  Is  that  all"?  " 

"  Do  not  hate  me,"  she  said  with  a  trembling  lip. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  explained  simply  as  before. 

"  God  help  you,"  said  the  Irish  girl.  "  It's  not 
that,  though,  I  should  be  saying."  She  held  out  a 
hand,  turning  her  head  aside.  "  I'm  not  angry  at 
you,  Mr.  Champion  dear,  not  for  a  moment.  It's 
the  world -" 

And  he  went,  across  the  long  grass,  and  stepping 
carefully  over  the  low  mounds.  She  dropped  the 
hand  he  had  not  touched,  and  watched  his  straight 
white  figure  go,  flashing  here  and  there  among  the 
tufted  yews,  till  it  vanished  round  the  end  of  the 
little  church.  Her  hands  were  clasped  up  against 
her  chest,  and  her  face  was  of  patient  pain.  She 
had  liked  him  so  much  —  he  had  helped  her  so  — 
but  there  was  an  end  of  Tom. 

Sitting  there  still  she  heard  the  minute  gun,  and 
knew  that  the  third  shot  would  start  the  string  of 
fleet  white  boats,  and  awake  into  tumult  the 
waiting  throng.  She  must  move :  she  must  go  down, 
or  her  absence  would  be  remarked  and  suspected. 
With  an  effort  she  stirred,  glanced  once  round  her 
about  the  peaceful  close  of  death,  where  two  lives 
had  clashed  so  hotly  and  parted,  and  went  wearily 
by  the  devious  footpath  to  the  gate.  It  was  not  till 


372  HERSELF 

she  got  there  that  she  remembered  the  existence  of 
the  ill-treated  Eustace,  who  was  sitting  just  outside 
the  church  precincts,  on  a  stone  beside  the  way.  He 
was  perfectly  stationary  there  as  though  on  guard, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  his  beautifully  polished  boots.  He 
spoke  still  without  looking  at  her,  just  as  any  com- 
mon schoolboy  might  have  done. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  head's  worse,"  he  said,  with 
haughtiness  that  was  merely  shy.  "  We  had  better 
cut,  I  should  think,  the  crowd's  so  beastly  noisy." 

"  Are  we  not  under  orders'?  "  said  Miss  Clench, 
surprised. 

"  If  you'd  rather  come  and  wait  in  the  boats," 
said  the  boy,  "  I'll  risk  the  mater's  wrath.  I  —  I 
have  got  to  look  after  you,  Tom  said." 

The  girl  did  not  thank  him.  "  It's  under  your 
brother's  orders  you  are  then,"  she  suggested,  with 
a  little  smile,  as  they  moved  away. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Eustace,  flicking  at  the  stones 
with  his  light  stick,  "  I've  noticed,  to  get  a  quiet  life, 
a  man's  bound  to  be  under  somebody." 

From  which  Miss  Clench  gathered,  with  really 
laudable  penetration,  since  English  schoolboys  were 
new  to  her,  that  Eustace  worshiped  Tom. 


XIII 

THE  stir  the  dance  made  was  unheard-of  at  Farover, 
except  on  this  one  day  of  the  year.  It  was  the 
smallest  possible  affair  as  to  numbers,  for  the 
second  drawing-room  could  only  afford  comfortable 
turning-space  for  half  a  dozen  couples;  but  the  small 
number  of  the  guests  made  no  difference  to  the  effort 
spent  on  their  reception  —  rather  increased  it,  for  a 
"  herd  "  can  never  be  so  critical  as  a  small  coterie  of 
friends.  Non-dancers  had  to  be  asked  as  well,  for 
there  were  plenty  of  other  rooms,  and  people  like  the 
Vicar  and  the  Champions'  agent  could  hardly  be 
omitted.  Yet,  though  the  whole  tale  could  not  ex- 
ceed twenty,  and  the  preliminary  dinner  was 
restricted  to  four  pairs,  the  whole  establishment  was 
in  upheaval  from  early  dawn,  and  Winifred's  ordi- 
narily passive  servants  woke  into  chattering  and 
liveliness. 

"  You'll  dance,  Miss  Harriet,  surely,"  said  Hester, 
as  she  hooked  the  festal  dress  at  seven  o'clock.  "  It'll 
do  you  good." 


374  HERSELF 

"  I  believe,"  said  Harriet,  "  they  have  not  counted 
me." 

"  Indeed,  they  have.  I  heard  Mr.  Escreet  say 
your  name." 

Harriet  thought  —  "It  may  not  for  all  that  be 
on  Mrs.  Escreet' s  list,"  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  I  believe  I've  grown  fatter,"  she  said  pensively, 
as  Hester  reached  the  last  hook.  "  It's  tight."  She 
laughed,  because  Hester  did. 

"  It's  nothing  of  the  kind,"  declared  that  good 
personage.  "  That's  your  imagination,  Miss  Harriet. 
Now  go  along  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Retreating,  she  swept  her  up  and  down. 

"  You  are  all  I  have  for  a  long  glass,"  said  Harrie, 
taking  up  her  gloves.  "  You  will  have  to  tell  me 
what  is  true.  It's  out  of  fashion,  isn't  it  —  and 
faded.  I've  had  it  these  two  years." 

"  It's  as  pretty  as  a  picture,"  said  Hester  thought- 
fully. She  was  speculating,  with  the  conscientious 
attention  of  a  good  lady's  maid,  how  such  a  plain 
dress  managed  it.  The  girl  within  it  was  as  usual, 
not  even  exceptionally  lively,  pale  of  countenance, 
and  her  arms  and  throat  covered  according  to  the 
French  fashion  for  the  evening.  She  had  beautiful 
little  slim  arms,  and  Hester  regretted  having  to 
hide  them;  but  the  dress  and  the  girl  together,  for 
all  that,  looked  better  than  Miss  Rosaline  in  her 
shimmering  gauze  and  pearls. 


FAROVER  375 

"I  wish  Miss  Ann  could  see  you,"  said  Hester 
with  real  regret. 

"  I  wish  it  too,"  said  Harrie,  with  a  sigh.  "  She's 
long  gone,  isn't  she4?  I  could  do  with  her  this 
evening  too,  for  I  don't  know  many  that  are 
coming." 

"  You'll  know  them  pretty  soon,"  said  Hester. 
"  You  make  friends  easy,  Miss  Harriet." 

Both  thought  —  "  And  enemies  too,"  but  neither 
said  it.  Hester  and  her  kitchen  following  had  a 
very  strong  suspicion  of  affairs  in  the  house. 

"  Mr.  Tom's  coming  later,"  she  observed  in  en- 
couragement. 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  talk  to  me,"  laughed  Harrie, 
"  when  he's  engaged?  " 

"  Engaged,  are  they  at  last,  Miss?  I  thought  by 
Miss  Rosaline's  look  —  she's  been  very  sweet  this 
evening." 

"  Secret,  now,  Hester,"  said  Harrie  severely. 
"  Not  even  Marion  —  but  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  wish  them  joy,"  said  Hester.  "  There's 
nobody  like  Mr.  Tom.  And  Miss  Ann,  now  —  she'll 
be  delighted." 

"Delighted,"  agreed  Harriet,  looking  down. 
"  Hester,  I  wonder  they  say  English  gloves  are  bad. 
I  wore  these  at  the  concert,  and  they're  just  as  good 
as  new." 

She  had  Gervase  for  her  neighbor  at  dinner:  and 


376  HERSELF 

her  partner  was  a  college  crony  of  his  from  Oxford, 
who  talked  to  him  across  her  all  the  time.  This 
person  had  heard,  who  shall  say  how,  that  there  was 
a  girl  in  the  house  who  had  set  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood by  the  ears;  and  after  he  had  been  introduced 
to  Harriet,  had  escorted  her  to  dinner,  and  forgotten 
her  name,  he  was  still  waiting  for  this  exuberant 
young  person  to  appear.  He  was  not  sure  whether 
or  no  to  suspect  Rosaline,  whose  brilliant  attire,  and 
cheeks  flushed  with  happy  excitement,  attracted  all 
eyes  to  her  at  the  table.  It  was  the  first  time  Rosa- 
line had  been  asked  by  a  formal  card  to  dine  at  Far- 
over,  and  she  knew  it  was  the  recognition  of  a  new 
right,  which  henceforth  and  forever  she  could  claim. 
She  felt  kindly  to-night  even  to  Harrie,  that  color- 
less little  mouse  in  blue;  though  she  wondered  a 
little  that  she  had  not  managed  a  more  appropriate 
dress. 

But  Winifred  and  Mrs.  Champion  were  not  guilty 
of  that  mistake,  and  when  Miss  Clench  came  into 
the  open  ballroom,  she  was  the  center  of  some  very 
curious  glances. 

"  Jacques  Marot,  I  should  judge,"  said  Winifred, 
naming  a  famous  firm.  "  Certain  shades  are  his 
secret." 

"  How  could  she  afford  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Champion. 
"  I  thought  she  was  poor." 

"  Do  not  ask,  dear  Grace,"  said  Winifred.    "  The 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  377 

i  Clenches  afford  what  is  necessary.  This  is  an  occa- 
i  sion,  I  gather  —  and  we  ought  to  be  grateful." 

"  You  dislike  her,"  said  Mrs.  Champion,  without 
hesitation. 

"  I  own  it.  But  I  shall  look  at  her  with  pleasure 
notwithstanding. ' ' 

"  If  you  do  "  —  the  thought  moved  in  the  depths 
of  Mrs.  Champion  —  "  you  are  not  a  woman,  Wini- 
fred. It  is  better  to  be  a  woman,  and  own  it  up." 

She  snapped  her  fan,  and  walked  off  to  be  pleasant 
to  Rosaline. 

Harriet  did  not  dance  at  first,  for  she  was  trying 
to  gather  courage  to  attack  the  Vicar,  who  had  come 
without  his  wife.  It  was  a  dread  determination, 
even  for  a  Clench;  for  the  single  look  he  had  directed 
to  her  from  his  corner  by  the  door  was  one  of  flat 
condemnation :  of  herself,  her  presence  in  public,  and 
t^e  blue  dress. 

Gervase  Escreet,  meanwhile,  had  told  two  men 
in  confidence  that  she  danced  divinely,  and  sh£  was 
being  stalked,  though  she  knew  it  not,  in  her 
flitting  from  room  to  room.  At  last  she  was  cornered 
by  the  master  of  the  house,  who  wore  his  gayest 
smile  and  silkiest  manner  —  as  of  a  cat  only  waiting 
to  be  stroked,  and  entreating  not  to  be  patted. 

"  The  next  waltz,"  murmured  Gervase.  "  I  have 
retained  it." 


378  HERSELF 

"  You  shouldn't  then,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  hardly 
think  I'm  dancing." 

"  If  you  just  put  your  hand  here,"  said  Gervase, 
"  you  will  find  yourself  dancing  without  effort.  The 
simplest  thing." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Grayling,"  said  Harrie, 
half-laughing.  "  Really,  Mr.  Escreet,  I  have  busi- 


ness." 


"All  the  exertion  of  your  business-power,  which 
I  know  to  my  cost,  will  not  stir  those  grave  black 
legs." 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  waltz  with  him,"  said  Har- 
rie. "  I've  no  doubt  he  would  be  stiff." 

"  Stiff er  than  you  can  conceive,"  said  Gervase, 
with  meaning.  "A  man  of  rock,  Harri-et.  Little 
blue  waves  will  try  to  crumble  him  in  vain." 

Harrie  sighed.  "  Well,  I'll  have  one  dance,"  she 
said.  "  It's  such  lovely  music.  But  you  will  not 
keep  me." 

Gervase  merely  smiled.  Keeping  people  was  not 
his  difficulty,  once  he  had  them  at  arm's  length. 
He  was  a  popular  man,  spoiled  by  life  and  all  his 
surroundings.  Any  girl  in  the  room,  or  woman 
either,  would  have  been  thankful  for  a  dance  with 
him;  but  profiting  by  the  smallness  of  the  occasion, 
and  the  position  he  claimed  as  a  fogey,  he  had  only 
danced  once,  and  that  with  his  own  wife. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  give  our  Thomas  one?  "  he 


FAROVER  379 

said,  as  they  came  back  down  the  room.  "  He's 
looking  at  you  hungrily." 

"  He's  too  tall  for  me,"  said  Harrie.  Her  voice 
was  quiet,  but  she  had  a  shock.  There  had  been  a 
feline  quality  in  Mr.  Escreet's  tone  that  she  was 
swift  to  mark,  and  she  wondered  if  he  had  discovered. 
He  was  clever,  terribly;  and  she  could  not  bear 
somehow  that  the  gossip  that  was  tearing  at  her  own 
peace,  should  touch  Tom. 

However,  the  observation  decided  her  as  to 
further  dancing.  She  loved  the  exercise  as  a  born 
dancer  must;  but  she  saw  on  this  occasion  she  had 
to  forego  it.  She  shortened  the  waltz  with  Mr. 
Escreet,  to  his  indignation,  and  stopping  near  the 
door,  slipped,  with  a  little  nod  to  him,  round  the 
curtains. 

"  A  wave,"  he  thought  again,  for  her  movements 
were  like  water.  He  wondered  he  had  never  noticed 
his  secretary  was  so  graceful  —  and  yet  of  course 
that  brute  Clench's  daughter  was  bound  to  be. 
Gervase  remembered  Brian  for  five  minutes,  and 
watched  Winifred  dancing  with  Tom,  a  curious 
smile  on  his  face.  It  was  mistaken  of  Harrie  to  cut 
short  a  waltz  with  such  an  epicure  at  its  most  ex- 
quisite moment,  and  if  she  had  had  a  little  more 
experience,  she  would  have  known  it. 

She  made  for  the  servants'  quarters  as  a  sure 


380  HERSELF 

retreat.  As  she  passed  the  door  of  the  retired  little 
book-room  under  the  staircase,  she  spied  the  Vicar 
alone  within,  and  that  determined  her.  He  was 
turning  over  a  paper  he  had  picked  up,  and  it  struck 
her  that  he  looked  singularly  lonely  and  miserable  — 
not  at  all  such  as  the  powerful  pastor  of  an  agri- 
cultural district  should  be.  He  was  a  cold  man,  she 
knew,  and  not  liked,  his  wife  having  done  all  in 
making  what  reputation  for  benevolence  he  possessed. 
He  frowned  now,  as  though  at  his  article,  when  he 
became  conscious  of  the  intruder;  and  she  stopped 
just  within  the  draped  doorway,  and  enquired  gently 
after  Mrs.  Grayling. 

"  Nothing  very  serious,"  he  said,  with  a  perfectly 
false  manner.  "  She  thought  it  wiser  not  to  come 
out." 

"Poor  man,"  thought  Harrier  and  continued, 
advancing  a  little :  "  May  I  ask  if  Fraiilein  Lindt 
has  decided  to  leave  you*?  " 

"  She  has,"  said  Mr.  Grayling,  turning  his  paper 
and  guarding  his  frown.  "  Easily  tempted  away." 
He  cleared  his  throat. 

"It  is  often  now  or  never  with  these  engage- 
ments," said  Harriet.  "  I  suppose  she  has  seen  the 
London  manager,  has  she*?  " 

"  She  is  to  see  him  again  this  week,  and  intends 
to  look  for  a  lodging." 

"  You  do  not  approve." 


FAROVER  381 

"  I  cannot  encourage  such  rash  proceedings.  She 
is  far  safer  with  us." 

"  But  if  it  is  for  her  career "  said  Harrie. 

He  made  no  answer,  and  plainly  wished  her  gone. 

"  Mr.  Grayling,"  she  said,  her  pale  little  face 
flushing.  "  I  know  Bertha's  leaving  you  suddenly 
will  be  awkward,  and  you  have  need  down  there  of 
an  extra  hand.  If  you  let  me  come  to  you,  I  will 
do  my  best."  She  broke  short,  for  his  black  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  over  the  lowered  paper,  with  that 
dead,  icy  look  she  could  not  bear. 

"You?"  he  said. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  help  your  wife,"  she  faltered. 
"  I  should  not  ask  more  than  Bertha  is  getting." 

"  You  are  good-natured,  Miss  Clench,"  said  the 
Vicar  slowly,  in  an  indescribable  tone.  Her  type 
was  allowed  that  quality,  it  implied.  "  You  are 
good-natured,  and  —  ahem  —  impulsive.  You  can- 
not really  have  reflected,  to  make  such  an  offer." 

Harrie  put  her  hand  to  her  flushed  cheek,  for  with 
all  her  courage,  her  heart  was  beating  violently. 
The  man  had  insulted  her  once,  and  might  again: 
the  look  he  fixed  on  her  revived  that  blasting  mem- 
ory. Indeed,  had  she  known  it,  her  blue  robe  and 
delicate  flush  were  not  serving  her,  for  she  spoke  to  a 
worthy  descendant  of  Puritans,  whom  bodily  charm 
could  only  sour. 

"  I  have  not  reflected  too  much,"  she  said  in  a 


HERSELF 

shaking  voice.  "  Indeed,  I  do  not  dare,  among  the 
people  here.  I  think  their  thoughts,  and  then  I  for- 
get my  own.  .  .  .  Mr.  Grayling,  I'm  a  girl, 
and  I  suppose  I  may  have  made  mistakes." 

"Mistakes'?"  he  echoed. 

"  People  do  not  act  as  I  expect,"  said  Harriet, 
"  and  then  I  go  wrong  with  them.  I  suppose  I  must 
blame  my  education."  Even  now  as  she  looked  at 
him,  she  felt  he  was  misunderstanding  her  phrases. 
Her  mind  could  not  speak  to  his.  She  dropped  dis- 
cussion, and  grasped  at  the  man  in  him. 

"  It's  surely  fair  to  tell  me  what  is  said,"  she  cried. 

"  Ah  —  no  doubt,"  said  the  Vicar,  for  this  was  a 
line  he  could  understand. 

The  Rev.  Frederick  Grayling  had  few  brains,  but 
he  considered  himself  honest,  and  made  much  of  that 
quality  in  his  moral  teaching. 

"  I  may  repeat  to  you,"  he  said,  taking  on  some 
professional  tone,  "  that  I  am  not  going  on  idle 
supposition.  I  seldom  do  that.  For  what  I  know, 
as  I  told  you  before,  I  have  the  best  of  evidence, 
which  I  have  spent  some  trouble  in  sifting." 

"  There  is  nothing  more,  then,  but  the  last,"  said 
Miss  Clench  dryly;  and  then,  at  his  newly  suspicious 
look,  regretted  it.  "  That  day,  if  I  remember,  you 
only  implied  your  charge,  Mr.  Grayling." 

"  The  occasion  chanced  to  be  in  public,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  thought  it  kinder." 


FAROVER 

"Kinder?"  she  laughed,  a  very  little.  "The 
forms  kindness  takes,  over  here,"  she  murmured. 
"  Well,  sir,  I  offer  you  my  own  evidence  now,  if  that 
is  of  any  use.  It  might  improve  matters  —  and  it's 
fair  to  give  me  the  chance." 

The  effect  of  the  invitation  she  hardly  gauged, 
and  she  could  not  avoid  a  start  when  he  spoke. 

"  You  are  not  married?  "  said  Mr.  Grayling. 

"  No !    How  would  I  be  married?  " 

"  I  mean  of  course  to  that  young  man.  You  do 
not  deny  it  is  the  same  man  who  figures  in  the 
Fraiilein's  story?  Of  course  we  have  heard  all  that." 

"  It  is  the  same,"  said  Harrie.  At  least,  she 
thought,  she  was  out  in  the  open  now,  and  she  almost 
thanked  the  man  for  his  crudity. 

"  You  have  sent  money  to  him?  More  than  once, 
perhaps." 

"  I  have.  Why  not,  when  it  is  money  I  have 
earned?  " 

"  And  you  assert  there  is  no  illicit  connection 
between  you?  " 

"  None  —  but  that  we  love  one  another."  Her 
beautiful  voice  filled  and  quavered.  For  every- 
thing in  the  world  she  could  not  have  helped 
saying  it. 

"  Miss  Clench !  "  He  rose  uncomfortably,  turn- 
ing half  away.  "  I  am  not  even  of  your  church,"  he 
said,  with  a  touch  of  gentlemanly  spirit.  "And 


384  HERSELF 

you  doubtless  consider  I  have  no  right  to  examine 
you." 

"  I  have  given  you  the  right  —  as  a  possible  em- 
ployer." She  spoke  steadily,  trying  desperately  to 
see  the  thing  through  his  eyes.  "  I  ask  you  to  re- 
member," she  said,  keeping  her  eyes  on  his  with  a 
violent  effort  of  will,  "  this  boy  you  talk  of  is  my 
own  cousin,  and  orphaned  of  his  parents.  He  has 
no  belongings  at  all  except  my  father  and  me." 

"  Your  father,  yes.  The  young  man  has  led  a 
respectable  life?" 

"  I  cannot  say,  before  I  found  him."  Her  hands 
were  wrung  together  at  the  cruelty  of  it.  Struggle 
which  way  she  would,  the  entanglement  of  the 
Clench  tradition  of  light  living  was  about  her.  She 
began  to  see  there  could  be  no  way  out. 

"  If  you  came  into  my  family,"  said  the  Vicar  in 
growing  triumph,  "  can  you  promise  this  person 
would  not  molest  you4?  " 

"  How  can  I  promise  it*?  "  She  gazed  at  him,  and 
her  gray-blue  eyes  were  piteous.  "  I  would  do  my 
best.  Did  I  not  begin  by  saying  that?  It  is  all 
that  anyone  can  do." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said  coldly,  "  it  is  impossible.  I  am 
sorry,  Miss  Clench,  I  cannot  make  you  see  how  im- 
possible it  is."  He  took  up  the  paper  again,  his  firm 
hand  shaking  a  little. 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  385 

Had  she  not  felt  so  utterly  battered  by  him,  her 
flame  of  courage  so  slowly  and  completely  stifled 
out,  she  would  have  observed  that  tell-tale  wavering, 
and  noticed  the  tone  of  his  last  words  more  closely, 
and  known  that  her  great  effort  and  challenge  to  his 
honesty  had  had  more  effect  on  his  slow  mind  than 
she  thought.  But  Grayling  was  the  least  expressive 
type  of  man,  and  Clenches  were  accustomed  to  ex- 
pression. He  needed  to  go  home,  and  think  for 
hours,  and  defend  his  point  of  view  angrily  to  his 
wife,  and  jerk  about  the  study  —  before  any  particle 
of  his  opinion  could  change.  She,  on  the  other  hand, 
took  the  dismissal  as  final,  and  the  snub  as  complete. 
She  turned  about,  and  went  slowly  on  her  way, 
swinging  with  her  lithe  gait  out  of  the  curtained 
door  —  the  curtain  of  which  dropped  thus  on  her 
last  hope. 

She  felt  wounded  and  miserable  to  the  last  degree; 
even  her  pride  was  crushed,  and  the  rebel  spirit 
would  not  surge  at  call,  to  mock  and  make  light  of 
this  last  embodiment  of  her  intangible  foe.  It  must 
be  repeated  perhaps  once  more,  to  those  who  would 
condemn  her  retreat  before  all  her  weapons  had  been 
tried,  after  so  short  a  brush  with  the  central  enemy 
—  that  Harriet  was  only  eighteen. 

The  last  shock  of  the  day  arrived  and  passed  so 
swiftly,  that  she  had  no  leisure  till  afterwards  to 


386  HERSELF 

realize  its  full  significance.  Only  when  she  sat 
panting  in  her  own  room,  before  her  own  table 
at  midnight,  and  her  revolted  senses  had  calmed  a 
little,  could  she  begin  to  turn  her  mind  on  the  oc- 
currence. 

Harrie  had  remained  in  retreat  for  most  of  the 
evening.  Whenever  she  appeared,  various  men, 
including  Mr.  Escreet,  pressed  her  for  a  dance,  but 
she  was  too  thoroughly  out  of  spirits  to  accept  fur- 
ther amusement.  She  listened  to  the  music  behind 
curtains;  and  once,  when  Ger vase's  Oxford  friend 
was  teasing  her  in  her  retreat,  Tom  Champion  came 
and  talked  to  her  a  little,  routing  the  other  man. 
She  thanked  him  before  he  left  her  with  a  little  hand, 
which  he  held  in  his  firm  grasp  a  minute,  though 
without  turning  a  glance  upon  her. 

Towards  midnight  she  escaped  to  the  garden, 
having  borrowed  a  dark  cloak.  For  some  time  she 
was  alone  on  the  low  wall  of  the  rose-garden,  en- 
JQying  the  faint  sweet  scents  of  earth  from  the  beds, 
for  the  season  was  late,  the  June  buds  had  hardly 
broken,  and  rose-scents  were  not.  Presently  a  ball- 
room couple  came  to  Winifred's  shed  alongside. 
She  heard  scraps  of  their  conversation,  and  recog- 
nized Gervase  at  his  most  foolish,  brilliant,  and  en- 
gaging —  the  after-midnight  manner  he  reserved  for 
dances.  He  had  Rosaline  with  him,  but  Rosaline 
was  fetched  soon  after  by  a  partner,  and  the  master 


FAROVER  387 

}f  the  house  strolled  down  among  his  roses,  smoking 
and  enjoying  the  night. 

He  recognized  the  little  figure  on  the  wall  with  a 
slight  "  Ah !  "  of  satisfaction,  and  sat  down  beside 
her.  Harrie  was  vexed  a  trifle,  for  she  had  no  imme- 
diate wish  for  company.  He  talked  idly  for  a  period 
in  his  manner,  and  she  hardly  troubled  to  answer.  He 
told  her  that  Winifred  had  said  she  wished  to  leave 
them,  and  that  he  considered  it  very  unkind  —  that 
she  had  made  herself  indispensable,  that  the  boss 
was  quite  satisfied,  and  various  other  playful  patron- 
izing things.  Finally,  still  in  the  paternal  manner, 
he  put  his  arm  about  her  as  they  sat  together  on  the 
wall,  and  kissed  her. 

She  was  away  from  him  in  a  minute,  and  facing 
him  on  the  grass,  a  quivering  little  shape  of  fury. 

"  If  I  didn't  strike  you  you  should  be  glad!  "  she 
said;  and  there  was  a  blank  pause  in  the  darkness. 

Then  Gervase  slowly  awoke,  out  of  the  luxurious 
dream  he  had  allowed  himself.  He  had  had  not  the 
least  intention  to  arouse  her,  he  had  only  pushed 
his  cat-like  quest  of  comfort  a  little  too  far. 

"Need  I  apologize*?"  he  said,  laughing  uncer- 
tainly. "  Surely  we  are  friends  enough  for  that, 
Harri-et." 

Something  in  the  use  of  the  play-name  at  such  a 
juncture  maddened  the  girl. 

"  You  will  call  me  by  my  name,  if  you  please, 


388  HERSELF 

sir,"  she  said.  "  My  name  is  Clench,  you  may  have 
forgotten." 

"You're  right:  they  all  spit  fire,  the  Clenches," 
said  Gervase,  but  his  languid  tone  was  not  natural. 
"  Come  now,  calm  yourself,"  he  advised.  "  There's 
taste  to  be  thought  of  too.  You  are  taking  things 
too  seriously." 

"  I  believe  that  is  a  fault  of  mine,"  she  said,  still 
in  the  low  furious  tone.  "  My  tastes  are  not  yours, 
nor  my  habits  either.  You  have  taught  me  that 
among  you,  and  I  thank  you  for  it." 

"  Come,  come,"  he  murmured,  still  purring  at  her. 

"  I  will  thank  you  to  speak  no  more,"  she  fired 
back.  "  I  have  served  you  as  I  can,  Mr.  Escreet, 
and  I  offer  you  now  my  resignation.  You  will  find 
someone  else  to  complete  your  book  and  amuse 
you  in  odd  times.  I  never  thought  it  was  the  work 
for  me,  and  now  you  have  made  me  sure  of  it.  I 
shall  say  no  word  to  anybody,  you  can  trust  me, 
but  I  leave  to-morrow  early." 

"  Harriet !  "  he  cried,  rising.  He  saw  at  last  some 
measure  at  least  of  his  mistake,  and  how  he  had 
injured  her  by  his  contemptuous  treatment.  When 
she  rejected  Farover,  that  home  of  all  lofty  delights, 
Gervase  the  proprietor  saw  it  clear,  and  awoke 
from  the  midnight  mood  into  daylight  reason.  By 
that  new  light,  his  proceeding  towards  her  did  not 
show  so  well. 


FAROVER  $89 

"  Harriet  —  wait,"  he  said,  growing  veritably 
anxious  as  he  thought  of  Winifred.  "  Good  heavens, 
the  little  fool " 

For  she  was  gone.  Her  shadow  passed  over  the 
dewy  grass,  and  budding  roses,  and  flitted  up  the 
terrace,  in  under  the  secret  silken  curtains,  and  up 
the  soft  treacherous  stairs.  Music  floated  after  her 
as  she  went;  but  she  fled  still,  like  a  thing  unworthy, 
through  the  fairy  palace.  It  was  not  for  her,  indeed, 
any  part  of  it.  It  was  not  real  to  her,  it  spoke  no 
language  she  could  follow,  it  held  no  people  she 
could  meet  on  common  ground,  or  comprehend.  It 
was  all  false,  useless,  vacant:  essentially  uncol- 
lectable. 

She  went  to  her  room  and  thought  about  it  for 
hours,  head  on  hands,  but  with  no  tears.  For  the 
Clenches  did  not  spend  tears  on  such  things  as  this, 
or  on  such  people  as  Gervase  Escreet. 


Harriet  left  Farover  the  next  morning.  She  had 
a  short  interview  with  Winifred  in  her  room,  ex- 
plaining nothing  of  her  reasons,  though  each  woman 
understood  the  other  perfectly.  She  left  the  address 
of  a  small  hotel  at  Oxford,  in  case  a  letter  came  from 
Ann.  Ann's  return  was  uncertain  in  date,  Rosaline 
had  assured  her;  but,  utterly  vague  as  her  future  was, 
she  had  no  idea  but  to  await  the  return  of  that  kind 


390  HERSELF 

friend,  for  Rosaline  herself  had  been  asked  to  Risings 
for  a  visit  of  some  days. 

The  kitchen  alone  regretted  Miss  Clench's  going. 
Marion  the  cook  wept  exceedingly ;  John  carried  her 
box  to  the  station  with  his  own  respectable  hands; 
and  Hester,  whose  weakness  was  not  tears,  accom- 
panied her  to  the  gate,  in  defiance  of  all  habit  and 
custom  in  Farover.  But  Hester's  jaw  was  grimly 
set,  and  if  Mrs.  Escreet  had  met  her  so  walking,  it 
was  not  Hester  who  would  have  had  the  worst  of  the 
encounter. 

"  You've  friends  in  Oxford,  Miss  Harrie,"  she 
said  anxiously. 

"  I  shall  have,  when  Miss  Maskery  comes  home." 

"And  when's  that4?"  Then,  at  the  girl's  face, 
"  If  I  haven't  a  mind  to  come  with  you,"  she  cried. 

"  Nonsense,  Hester :  I  shall  be  all  right.  Oxford 
is  a  good  place  to  find  teaching." 

"  There's  Mrs.  Grayling  —  she's  ill,"  said  Hester, 
seeking  vainly.  "  There's  that  Miss  Lindt,  couldn't 
she  go  with  you?  " 

"  She  is  in  London  to-day,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  will 
write  to  her." 

"  Miss  Harriet  —  you'll  excuse  me  —  but  if 
you've  need  of  money " 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Harrie,  and  lifted  her  blue 
eyes  to  the  kind  woman.  "  Hester  dear,"  she  said, 
putting  her  little  hands  on  her  shoulders,  "  it's 


F  A  R  0  V  E  R  391 

kindness  itself  you've  been,  since  I  came  to  Farover. 
But  you  mustn't  vex  yourself,  for  I've  always  made 
my  way.  I  leave  Farover  where  I  started,  that  is 
all.  It  is  not  a  place  in  which  you  can  get  forward 
at  all,  and  so  it  is  not  for  me.  I  am  better  out  of 
it,  and  that's  the  fact.  Good-bye." 

They  kissed  one  another  in  the  face  of  the  august 
drive,  and  fine  oaken  gate. 

"  Good-bye,"  whispered  Harrie  again  when  she 
was  near,  "  and  I  hope  you  will  marry  John." 

Hester  went  away  blinking  to  the  house,  and  rated 
Marion  with  asperity  for  being  such  a  "grizzling 
softy." 

An  hour  after  Harriet's  departure,  the  young 
groom  Jimmie,  from  Risings,  beautifully  dressed 
and  mounted,  cantered  up  to  the  tradesmen's 
entrance.  Jimmie  was  an  old  acquaintance,  and 
both  Marion  and  Hester  came  out  to  see  what  was 
afoot. 

"Is  that  Miss  Clench  here*?"  quoth  Jimmie  in 
the  undertone  of  secret  service.  "  It's  a  note." 

"  She's  gone  an  hour  ago,"  said  Hester.  "  What's 
to  pay?  " 

"  Gone  —  not  really  gone?  "  Jimmie's  face 
lengthened.  "  Mr.  Tom'll  be  vexed.  I  was  to  give 
it  in  her  hands  —  very  special." 

"  I  never,"  said  Marion,  and  looked  at  Hester. 


392  HERSELF 

"Better  hand  it  to  Mrs.  Escreet,  eh4?"  said 
Jimmie. 

"  Naturally,  silly,"  said  Hester.     "  Give  it  here." 

She  took  the  note  with  her  best  parlor  air,  and 
while  Marion  stroked  the  chestnut's  neck,  and  talked 
to  his  rider,  she  departed  sedately  through  the 
servants'  hall. 

To  betray  any  lapse  of  a  model  parlor-maid  is  a 
sad  responsibility;  but  it  has  to  be  confessed  that, 
round  the  first  corner  that  concealed  her,  Hester 
opened  and  read  Mr.  Tom  Champion's  letter. 
Then,  as  her  master  was  shut  in  the  library  and  her 
mistress  upstairs,  she  walked  into  the  little  study, 
enclosed  the  communication  in  a  new  envelope, 
stamped  and  addressed  it.  After  which  unheard-of 
proceeding,  she  marched  out  again  and  handed  it  up 
to  the  groom. 

"  That's  to  be  posted  at  the  station,"  said  Hester. 
"  Sharp  and  don't  forget.  And  you  can  tell  Mr. 
Tom  it's  all  right.  That's  all." 

"What  was  it?"  said  Marion  curiously.  "  Did 
you  gather?  " 

"  Only  a  message  to  Miss  Ann,  as  he's  lost  her 
address,"  said  Hester  cheerfully. 

But  Hester  lied :  for  the  communication  was  to  let 
Harriet  know,  in  the  simplest,  clearest  terms,  that 
Pat  Morough  was  in  the  Oxford  Infirmary,  desper- 


F  A  R  O  V  E  R  393 

ately  ill :  that  he  had  sent  a  letter  to  Farover  from 
London  the  preceding  week:  that  wanting  a  reply 
he  had  endeavored  himself  to  come  to  his  little 
cousin;  but  that  his  strength  had  failed  utterly  at 
Oxford,  and  he  had  dropped  by  the  way.  He  still 
hoped,  if  she  had  any  love  left,  she  would  forgive 
him. 


PART  III 
HIMSELF 


A  TALL  man  stood  at  the  conservatory  entrance, 
about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  enquired 
for  Mrs.  Escreet.  He  asked  to  see  her,  with  his  back 
to  the  light,  but  preferred  to  give  no  name.  John 
hesitated,  for  the  house  was  in  disruption  for  the 
last  week,  and  even  before  the  occurrence  of  certain 
unfortunate  events,  he  had  had  a  terror  of  his 
mistress. 

"  Mr.  Horn,  sir,"  said  John,  as  he  took  the  vis- 
itor's traveling  coat,  which  was  rich  with  costly  fur. 
It  was  a  brilliant  idea  on  his  part:  for  he  knew  a 
gentleman  of  that  name  was  expected  the  next  day, 
and  gentlemen  do  make  mistakes.  He  used  the  tone 
of  respectful  assertion,  rather  than  interrogation,  of 
the  thoroughly  well-trained  man-servant. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  insist,"  said  the  stranger  affably. 

It  was  comical  behavior:  but  Mr.  Horn  was  said 
to  be  a  literary  gentleman,  which  accounts  for  some 
eccentricity.  John  rather  wished,  all  the  same,  that 
he  had  let  Hester  come  to  the  door :  she  had  so  much 
more  readiness  and  savoir-faire  at  a  crisis. 


398  HERSELF 

In  the  present  crisis,  John  did  what  seemed  his 
obvious  duty,  and  announced  Mr.  Horn  to  Winifred, 
who  was  in  her  room,  just  arisen  from  her  bed, 
where  she  had  somewhat  prolonged  her  afternoon 
siesta. 

"  Impossible,"  said  Mrs.  Escreet,  turning  from  the 
glass,  in  which  the  eyes  reflected  were  heavy  and 
miserable.  "  Don't  say  I  have  lost  the  days."  She 
put  a  hand  to  her  brow. 

"  Friday,  I  believe,  Madam,"  said  John,  in  his 
best  manner,  as  though  he  would  make  it  any  other 
day  to  suit  her  convenience  if  necessary.  He  felt  he 
was  somehow  to  blame,  for  the  occurrence  if  not  for 
the  date,  as  his  mistress  still  stood  for  a  moment, 
statue-like,  in  front  of  him. 

"  Tell  Marion,"  she  said,  "  and  your  master  just 
before  the  gong,"  and  swept  past  him  to  the  stairs. 
If  he  had  not  been  a  Farover  servant,  John  would 
have  respected  her  as  a  man  for  containing  her 
natural  bad  language  so  admirably.  He  hastened 
off  by  way  of  the  back  stairs,  to  take  counsel  with 
his  oracle,  Hester,  on  the  latest  occurrence,  in  the 
household. 


Winifred  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  hoping 
she  looked  better  than  she  felt.  The  guest,  however 
untimely,  was  a  celebrity,  and  she  must  do  the 


HIMSELF  399 

honors  of  her  house  to  him,  as  befitted  her  high 
calling  in  the  temple  of  taste.  The  room  she  entered 
was  worthy  enough  of  her  professions,  cool  to  a 
nicety,  and  fragrant  from  a  bowl  of  roses  and  an 
open  garden  window:  but  rather  dark,  owing  to  the 
persiennes  being  lowered  to  exclude  the  afternoon 
sun. 

"  I  am  so  sorry "  she  had  time  to  say,  and 

then  stopped  short.  "  Brian!  " 

The  man  on  the  sofa  had  risen  at  her  entrance, 
but  as  he  did  so,  laughed  the  most  delightful  laugh, 
low  and  easy,  as  though  years  of  happiness  were 
stored  in  him,  and  now  being  sparingly  let  out. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Winifred,"  he  said.  "  Your 
man  was  so  sure  about  my  name,  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  undeceive  him.  And  after  all,  what's  a  name, 
granted  your  friends  will  remember  it.**' 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  said  breath- 
lessly. She  still  stood,  like  a  statue  now  turned 
white. 

"  Doing,  is  it*?  And  to  me?  I've  simply  followed 
on  my  letter,  if  you  must  know,  and  come  to  find 
my  girl.  No  harm,  I  thought,  to  see  an  old  friend 
by  the  way." 

He  was  puzzled  by  her  though,  very  evidently. 
He  stared  curiously,  head  down,  like  a  watchful 
panther,  through  the  shadow  of  the  room. 

"  My  eyes  are  not  quite  what  they  were,"  he  said 


400  HERSELF 

as  she  still  stood  silent.  "  You'll  excuse  a  parent's 
natural  anxiety,  Winifred.  Is  anything  amiss?  " 

"  Brian  —  I  am  sorry."  She  gathered  tone  with 
an  effort.  "  I  am  vexed  to  tell  you  indeed.  Harriet 
has  left  us." 

"  Not  here?    Where  is  she,  then?  " 

"  In  Oxford,  I  believe." 

"  You  believe  ?  "  Clench  laughed  again.  "  Well, 
I  did  think  you'd  keep  an  eye  on  her  for  me.  Didn't 
think  of  me  so  soon,  eh?  " 

"  She  never  had  your  letter.  She  cannot,"  cried 
Winifred,  with  gathering  indignation,  "  or  she  must 
have  told  us.  She  would  not  have  dared " 

Brian  broke  in.  "  I  went  to  Versailles  to  find  her," 
he  said,  slowly  as  though  weighing  his  words. 
"  Sour  faces  on  the  women,  and  they  send  me  on  to 
the  Post.  I  proceed  to  the  Post,  and  the  young 
female  —  not  sour,  I  grant,  but  with  the  face  God 
gave  her  —  hands  me  out  your  address.  I  come  to 
you,  gladly  as  ever  I  was  known  to  come,  and  here 
you  pass  me  on  again,  with  a  face  upon  you,  as  I  live, 
Winnie,  no  traveler  could  expect.  Will  you  let  me 
have  an  explanation?" 

He  had  one,  longer  and  more  passionate  than  he 
had  bargained  for.  He  took  it,  still  watching 
panther-like,  with  his  hands  behind.  Brian  had 
Patrick's  elegant  proportions  and  lithe  build,  but 
greater  stature,  and  far  more  dignity.  The  dignity, 


HIMSELF  401 

it  is  true,  was  a  recent  acquisition,  for  in  Winifred's 
day  he  had  been  like  his  nephew,  a  genial  tramp. 
Somewhere  on  the  hemisphere  he  had  scoured, 
Brian  had  absorbed  majesty,  as  necessary  possibly 
to  his  years:  more  probably,  as  necessary  to  carry 
off  a  fur-coat,  fine  linen  and  well-cut  clothes.  As 
he  stood  before  Mrs.  Escreet,  he  might  have  been 
any  New  York  man  of  fashion,  except  for  two 
things.  One  was  that  lynx-like,  brilliant  gaze,  in 
which,  under  grizzled  eyebrows  and  narrowed  lids, 
all  the  germs  of  his  old  madness  lurked  hidden. 
The  other  was  a  singularly  dirty  pocket-handker- 
chief, evidently  used  of  late  to  clean  a  train-window, 
which  was  gaily  protruding  from  his  breast-pocket. 

"  Well,  that's  a  story,"  he  said  at  last.  "  That's  a 
story."  He  seemed  to  be  admiring  it  as  at  least 
well-constructed,  and  neatly  told.  "It  appears  I 
am  to  learn  the  girl  before  I  see  her,  which  is  just 
as  well.  It's  melancholy  realizing  how  a  man's 
family  gets  out  of  hand,  and  him  not  thinking  of  it. 
It  was  not  to  any  giddy  eminence  fat  Madam  raised 
my  hopes  at  Versailles.  Yet  it  would  not  be  rivalry 
there,"  said  Brian  thoughtfully,  "for  she's  not  a 
well-favored  woman." 

The  compliment  thus  clearly  indicated  to  herself 
jarred  Winifred. 

"  I  never  thought  of  rivalry,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"How  can  you  deliberately  misread  one,  Brian?" 


402  HERSELF 

"  Well,  what's  it  to  be  called,  then?  At  present 
I'm  at  sea,  being  shaky  with  long  traveling  upon  it, 
as  stands  to  reason.  What  do  you  complain  of  in 
her?" 

"  She  is  impertinent."  Then,  as  he  shrugged  — 
"  And  dishonest." 

"  Has  she  taken  the  spoons?  " 

"  Brian,  if  you  can  jest "  Her  voice  choked, 

and  she  turned  aside.  "  Go,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot 
speak  of  it  —  yet." 

"  She's  wretched,  the  poor  creature,"  said  Brian, 
it  seemed  a  soliloquy,  spoken  in  a  charming  tone. 
He  only  saw  her  shoulders  move  in  answer.  "  Don't 
think  I'm  defending  the  girl,"  he  said;  "  it's  not 
right  of  her,  on  my  honor,  when  you  received  her 
in  your  house.  Only  now  she's  gone  from  you,  as  I 
understand,  so  it  will  all  come  straight  —  it's  sure 
to.  I  can  inform  you,  who  have  had  some  experi- 
ence. Since  "  —  as  her  head  sank  lower  —  "  it's  the 
girl  you  blame  entirely  in  the  matter." 

"  Him,"  said  Winifred,  a  cry  torn  out  of  her.  "  I 
saw  it  in  her  eyes.  Oh,  how  could  he !  " 

"  Ha !  "  said  Brian  severely.  "  Him,  is  it?  Now 
didn't  I  always  tell  you  he  was  a  caterpillar?  " 

Mrs.  Escreet  turned  at  this  as  if  she  would  have 
struck.  "  Go,"  she  said,  in  a  choked  tone. 

"  And  a  grand  woman  like  yourself,"  pursued 
Brian  regretfully.  "  Not  a  day  older,  not  so  much 


HIMSELF  403 

as  I  am  myself.  My  girl's  nothing  to  look  at,  is  she? 
Ill-bred  and  full  of  faults,  as  it  appears."  He  broke 
out.  "  It's  the  taste  I'm  sorry  for,  Winifred.  I  did 
think,  whatever  his  weaknesses,  Ger vase's  taste  was 
good." 

Again  his  efforts  in  consolation  seemed  to  make 
no  impression,  for  Mrs.  Escreet  stood  before  him, 
looking  noble  and  distressed.  Brian  began  to  think 
it  must  be  serious,  and  his  face  changed  sym- 
pathetically on  the  thought.  He  also  would  be 
serious,  he  determined:  and  then  he  sat  down  on 
the  sofa,  hands  in  pockets,  meanwhile  stretching  out 
his  legs. 

"  Where's  Gervase  at  present?  "  he  asked,  in  the 
discreet  tone  of  one  who  enquires  of  a  family 
delinquent,  or  an  invalid. 

"  In  the  library.    He  has  been  there  all  day." 

"  Has  he  taken  food?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Winifred,  moving  irritably. 
"  I  have  had  meals  in  my  room." 

"  Phew !  that's  bad."  He  paused.  "  Has  he  sent 
any  flowers  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  jerked,  "  what  does  that  matter?  " 

"Has  he  done  so?"  Brian  pressed,  with  his 
narrowed,  glinting  eyes  fixed  upon  her  sidelong. 

"  He  sent  up  some  roses,  yesterday,  I  think." 

"  He's  willing  to  be  friends,"  said  Mr.  Clench. 
"And  you  there  on  your  dignity,  refusing  them: 


404  HERSELF 

cannot  I  see  you  at  it?  You  look  beautiful  when 
you're  stately,  Winifred." 

"  Pish !  "  she  said,  gazing  from  him  with  a  frown. 
"  Do  you  never  grow  any  older,  Brian?  "  He  swept 
her  face  with  one  keen  glance,  and  smiled. 

"  You're  not  content  with  his  remorse,"  he  sug- 
gested, leaning  forward  to  take  up  the  little  brass 
poker  from  the  empty  grate.  "  You  want  to  punish 
him  —  ah,  the  soft  sex  always  do."  He  brandished 
the  poker  gently.  "  Well,  punish  him,  it's  a  simple 
thing.  Give  him  something  to  make  him  remember 
you,  and  feel  you  matter  also,  in  your  way." 

"  I  cannot  wrangle,"  she  said  wearily.  "  I  cannot 
speak  of  it  even,  it  is  too  degrading  —  base.  I  had 
sooner  do  nothing  and " 

"  And  leave  him  to  his  reflections,"  finished  Brian. 
"  He's  had  a  day  of  it,  the  poor  man  —  six  days  is 
it?  —  well!  The  way  I  propose  to  myself,  you'd 
have  little  to  do,  and  it  would  spur  his  thinking  "  — 
he  spurred  with  the  poker  —  "  not  to  say  upset  him 
from  the  high  horse  to  your  feet." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  demanded,  suddenly 
facing  him,  as  though  suspicious. 

"  Just  drop  the  letters  on  the  table  before  him," 
said  Brian,  smiling  at  the  poker.  "  I  must  have  them 
somewhere,  put  away." 

There  was  a  very  long  pause  in  the  exquisite  room. 
Mr.  Clench  put  the  poker  tidily  down,  and  dusted 


HIMSELF  405 

his  large  fine  hands  on  the  disgraceful  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  You  coward,"  said  Winifred  softly. 

"  You  fool,"  returned  Brian,  with  equal  delicacy 
of  utterance.  "  I  never  said  as  much  to  a  woman 
before,  though  Heaven  knows  I  have  thought  it 
often.  He  takes  a  little  diversion  in  his  old  age, 
when  it's  no  more  than  yourself  did  as  a  newly- 
married  girl.  What  harm  when  it  goes  no  further, 
you'll  say:  well,  it's  thanks  to  me  it  did  not.  I 
never  replied  to  your  letters,  Winifred,  and  indeed 
I  may  have  lost  some  of  them,  traveling  so  long  as 
I've  been.  But  the  moment  you'd  like  me  to  look 
them  out " 

"  You  brute !  "    She  changed  the  word. 

"  Stop  there,"  said  Clench,  rising :  and  his  massive 
dignity  crushed  hers.  He  shone,  and  threw  her 
into  the  shade.  In  her  hatred  she  knew  he  had  never, 
even  in  his  youth,  been  so  magnificent. 

"  Keep  that  word  to  yourself,  or  I'll  have  to  return 
it,"  he  said.  "  For  what  treatment  have  you  given 
to  my  poor  little  girl?  Who's  she  got  to  care  for 
her,  ignorant  and  unmarried  as  she  is,  and  the 
sport  of  every  married  man  with  some  time  on  his 
hands,  as  yourself  has  been  telling  me"?  She's 
motherless,  and  alone,  and  you  with  no  child  to  love 
might  have  had  a  heart  for  her,  as  I've  been  reflecting 
thankfully  all  the  way.  '  Thank  God,  at  least  it  is 


406  HERSELF 

Winifred,'  I  said  in  my  own  remorse,  when  I  dis- 
covered at  last  where  she  had  strayed  to.  And  now 
good  night  to  Winifred,  and  the  home  that  has  found 
no  place  for  the  child,  and  I'm  off  alone  to  find  her." 

"Wait,"  the  woman  before  him  gasped.  "Let 
me  explain." 

"  No  need,"  he  said,  still  standing  with  his  head 
lowered  to  smile  at  her,  and  dusting  his  hands.  "  It's 
on  old  times  I  am  thinking,  these  last  few  minutes 
we're  together.  It  was  myself  had  the  honor  then, 
as  my  daughter  has  now,  to  disturb  you.  Well, 
we're  clearing  out  of  it,  and  into  a  better  country; 
let  that  be  your  consolation.  Double-quick  time,  I 
assure  you,  lest  her  warm  heart  be  corrupted,  with 
the  me-owling  that  goes  on  about  marriage  in  this 
worn  old  land.  We're  moving  across,  but  we'd 
sooner  leave  no  ill-will  behind  us.  We'd  sooner  that. 
You  go  in,  Winifred,  and  on  your  knees  to  him  in 
one  of  those  graceful  attitudes,  of  which  yourself 
holds  the  secret,  and  be  nice  to  him,  as  such  a  culti- 
vated, kind  woman  can  be.  He  will  meet  you,  for 
surely  he's  long  been  sorry,  after  this  bewildering 
treatment  from  one  he's  used  to  see  smiling.  Kiss 
and  make  it  up  again;  and  as  for  the  dignity  — 
there!" 

With  great  grace  Mr.  Clench  picked  up  a  satin 
sofa-cushion,  made  as  though  to  kick  it  like  a  foot- 
ball across  the  room,  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  blew 


HIMSELF  407 

through  his  fingers,  flung  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  made  her  a  profound  and  courtly  bow.  The 
single  misfortune  was,  that  the  last  part  of  this 
agile  exhibition  was  performed  in  the  company's 
rear;  for  Mrs.  Escreet  walked  out  of  the  room. 

When  she  had  quite  gone,  Mr.  Clench  relaxed  his 
fine  attitude,  and  performed  a  solemn  solitary  jig 
about  the  cushion  on  the  floor. 

"  It's  my  own  girl  she  is,  when  I'd  hardly  dared  to 
think  it,"  he  crowed  to  an  audience  of  chairs.  "  And 
me  sitting  there  solemn  like  a  bishop  to  preach  at 
her!" 

After  that  he  departed,  paralyzing  John  in  the 
entry  by  his  sable  coat,  and  mournful  dignity. 


II 


MR.  CLENCH,  who  was  burdened  merely  with  a  bag, 
went  first  to  his  daughter's  lodging,  on  his  arrival 
in  Oxford,  and  found  that  she  had  left  it.  Where 
she  had  gone  they  could  not  inform  him,  but  she  had 
departed  several  days  since,  with  a  gentleman  who 
had  come  to  fetch  her.  This  piece  of  information 
did  not  seem  to  disturb  Brian  particularly,  and  he 
proceeded  to  make  the  round  of  the  best  hotels  in 
Oxford  to  find  a  room,  his  face  an  inch  longer  as  he 
emerged  from  each.  Finally,  avoiding  the  quarter 
of  lesser  hostelries,  he  came  back  to  the  first  hotel 
he  had  tried,  where  he  trusted  —  with  really  excess- 
ive optimism  —  that  they  might  have  forgotten  him 
in  the  interval.  On  his  way  there,  in  the  middle  of 
Broad  Street,  he  happened  upon  a  short,  broad  per- 
son stamping  angrily  along  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Gudgeon !  "  he  exclaimed,  straddling  in  this 
person's  path. 

"  Clench !  "  exclaimed  the  organist :  and  they 
shook  hands  vigorously  as  old  acquaintances. 

"  I've  got  a  girl  in  the  town,"  said  Brian,  without 


HIMSELF  409 

preamble  and  very  loud.  "  Can  you  tell  me  where 
to  find  her4?  " 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon.  ,  "  You  come 
along  to  the  house,  though,  and  see  Horn.  He  might 
be  able  to  help  you." 

Brian  took  the  offer  as  made,  changed  all  his 
plans  on  the  instant,  and  turning  right-about-face, 
they  tramped  along  gaily  together. 

Now,  one  collectable  alone  can  perambulate  the 
world  with  no  more  than  a  surprised  eye  fixed  on  him 
from  time  to  time;  but  when  two  collectables  meet, 
their  manner  of  conducting  themselves,  and  the 
noise  they  make  in  a  public  thoroughfare,  is  apt  to 
attract  an  admiring  crowd  to  follow  them.  Small 
boys  began  to  run  in  the  rear  of  the  couple  of  queer 
men— T- one  so  tall  and  well-dressed,  the  other  so> 
short  and  snuffy  —  whistling  other  small  boys  at 
every  corner  they  passed  to  hasten  to  the  spot,  so  that 
the  attendant  troop  increased,  and  Brian  had  to 
swing  round  from  time  to  time,  and  flick  at  the 
company  with  his  cane. 

"  Who's  this  Horn,"  he  demanded,  the  stick  laid 
across  his  shoulder,  "  who  I'm  tumbling  over  at 
every  step  since  I've  come  to  England4?  " 

"Where  have  you  tumbled  over  him?"  said 
Gudgeon. 

"  I  was  on  his  tracks  just  lately  at  Farover." 

"  He  was  to  go  there  to-morrow,"  said  Gudgeon. 


410  HERSELF 

"  But  I've  a  notion  I  shall  persuade  him  to  refuse. 
He  has  a  quarrel  with  Winifred  Escreet  about  the 
girl." 

"What  girl?"  said  Brian. 

"  Yours." 

"What's  Horn  doing  quarreling  about  my  girl? 
Will  he  be  the  fellow  who  fetched  her  off?  " 

"  You  had  better  ask  him,"  said  Gudgeon,  show- 
ing a  prudence  that  one  would  not  have  suspected  in 
him.  "  I  am  out  of  the  quarrel,  of  course :  though 
between  ourselves,  Clench,  I  think  Winifred  Es- 
creet's  a  fool." 

"  I  shake  your  hand  on  it,"  said  Brian.  "  I  told 
her  so  just  lately." 

"Did  you  now?"  said  Gudgeon  with  interest. 
"  Well,  I  came  pretty  near  it  —  though,  hang  it, 
forms  must  be  preserved.  It's  a  good  house  to  be  in, 
and  the  cooking's  a  marvel." 

"  I  couldn't  have  stayed  to  dinner,"  said  Brian 
thoughtfully,  "  I  hardly  could."  He  paused  in  the 
roadway  and  sighed;  then  they  tramped  away 
again. 

"  At  least,  she's  not  so  much  a  fool  as  blind,"  said 
the  Doctor,  resuming  suddenly.  "  And  not  so  much 
that  either  as  deaf." 

"  You  don't  say,"  said  Brian.  "  I  never  noticed 
she  was  afflicted." 

"Well,  look  here:    I  picked  out  a  magnificent 


HIMSELF  411 

pianiste  from  under  her  nose.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  picked  —  by  the  way,  I  suppose  you  know  your 
girl  has  a  voice." 

"  H  —  what?  "  vociferated  Brian,  stopping  short, 
and  so  loud  that  four  or  five  of  Oxford's  respectable 
citizens  looked  round  with  shocked  expressions. 
Then,  in  the  open  end  of  Broad  Street,  where  the 
book-shops  are  as  full  as  bee-hives,  and  good  young 
men  and  women  walk  back  and  forth  to  the  libraries, 
he  and  Gudgeon  solemnly  shook  hands. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  latter  proceeding. 
"  Though,  acting  by  the  light  of  nature  only,  she's 
placed  it  too  low.  It'll  go  up  by  strides  when  she 
gets  in  good  hands.  You  wait  and  see." 

"  Wait?  "  laughed  Brian.     "  Me?  " 

"  I  believe  she's  ill  at  present,"  Gudgeon  ex- 
plained. "  But  that  will  pass.  Girls'  illness  always 
does." 

Brian  agreed.  He  did  not  afford  much  of  his 
paternal  attention  to  the  illness,  though  he  thought 
over  the  voice  for  some  minutes  longer,  with 
ejaculations  in  an  undertone. 

"What's  her  age?"  he  reflected  aloud.  "My 
God,  it's  a  blessing  I  came.  And  to  think  that  little 
weasel  might  have  detained  me  another  year,  but 
for  a  slice  of  luck  I  barely  deserved."  He  shook  his 
head,  pondering  awe-struck  at  Fate's  ways. 

"  I  can't  put  you  up  for  the  night,  by  the  way," 


HERSELF 

said  the  organist  suddenly.  "  My  second  room,  the 
last  visitor  broke  down  the  bed." 

"  What  for  did  you  not  have  it  put  to  rights?  " 
said  Mr.  Clench,  displeased.  "Here  I've  walked 
the  whole  town  round  for  hours,  trying  to  find  some- 
thing fit  to  sleep  in.  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  back 
to-night  to  New  York." 

Dr.  Gudgeon  stopped  in  turn  —  their  proceeding 
was  irregular  —  and  looked  his  companion  up  and 
down  with  his  most  formidable  scowl. 

"  You've  made  a  fortune,  I  suppose,"  he  snapped. 
"  You're  a  rich  man,  now,  don't  deny  it." 

"  I  had  to,"  said  Brian  in  apology.  "  It  was  the 
first  step,  you  see,  to  what  I  wanted,  to  make  a  pile. 
If  you've  ever  seen  a  face,  Gudgeon,  looking  out  of 
a  high  window  in  a  great  gold  house  —  a  sky- 
scraper —  well !  So  I  made  the  dollars  necessary  by 
giving  all  my  attention  to  the  matter,  and  it  was  not 
so  hard  as  I'd  always  thought." 

"  You  generally  found  it  simpler  to  borrow,  didn't 
you?  "  said  Dr.  Gudgeon. 

"  I  did,"  said  Brian.  "  And  by  the  same  token  I 
ought  to  have  paid  Gervase  back.  But  he  is  such  a 
caterpillar,  my  instinct  was  to  avoid  treading  over 
him.  I  never  gave  thought  to  it,  though  it's  true  he 
could  claim  it  of  me." 

"  Pay  him,"  growled  Gudgeon,  who  was  an  honest 


HIMSELF  413 

man.  "  Money's  a  curse  altogether,  but  borrowed 
money's  a  hell." 

"  I  will,  since  you  advise  it,"  said  Brian.  "  I  have 
not  found  money  a  curse,  though,  I'll  tell  you,  so  long 
as  I've  tried  it,  which  is  a  matter  of  five  months. 
Doubtless  I  shall  in  time.  How  are  you  going?  "  he 
added  politely. 

"Low  for  the  moment,"  said  Dr.  Gudgeon. 
"  The  table's  poor.  I  told  Horn  he  had  better  dine 
out  a  good  deal,  and  he  has  taken  me  at  my  word.  I 
shall  go  up  again  soon,  when  some  lesson-fees  come 
in  —  this  is  a  cursed  town  for  delaying.  I've  lent  a 
lot  of  money  to  this  woman  I've  found,  to  launch 
her;  she's  launched,  though,  now,  and  will  do.  Then 
I  spent  a  lot  more  on  a  work  of  art  in  the  spring  —  a 
bit  of  marble,  which  now  Horn's  trying  to  buy  back 
from  me." 

"I'll  come  and  look  on  at  the  deal,"  said  Brian 
affably.  "  What  is  the  fellow  like ;  you  never  told 
me." 

"  Horn?  Well,  Horn  is  —  Horn's  not  bad.  He's 
rather  a  shilly-shally,  I  say:  but  the  London  public 
seems  to  like  him." 

"  Not  a  voice  upon  him?  "  queried  Brian  with  a 
spark  of  interest. 

"  Not  he;  only  a  book  or  two,  and  a  society  play." 

"That's    not   bad,"    said   Brian,    detaining    Dr. 


414  HERSELF 

Gudgeon  to  consider  the  point.  "  He'd  be  out  of 
society,  at  least,  to  write  it." 

"  Out  of  it,  as  you  say.  Now  society's  trying  to 
get  him  back." 

"  I'd  like  to  stop  that,"  said  Brian,  having  thought 
again. 

"  You  can  if  you  like,"  his  acquaintance  re- 
turned. 

"  What's  that  insinuation?  "  said  Brian,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  reflect  for  some  time,  his  stick  across  his 
shoulder.  He  did  not  expect  Gudgeon  to  explain, 
for  collectables  rarely  explain  their  insinuations,  at 
least  to  one  another.  Suggestion,  shadow,  passing 
impression  is  the  breath  of  their  life,  and  they  live 
among  such,  only  bolting  a  solid  fact  when  they 
must  —  in  order  to  put  it  out  of  sight.  For  this 
reason,  among  others,  they  madden  all  sensible 
people. 

On  entering  Gudgeon's  library  —  which  in  its 
comfort  and  beautiful  fittings  belied  his  account  of 
his  own  poverty  —  the  host  made  a  laudable  en- 
deavor to  present  his  guests  to  one  another.  But  the 
effort  was  quite  useless,  for  there  happened  to  be  in 
the  room  that  which  interested  Brian  more  than 
Horn.  He  marched  straight  to  a  side-table,  which 
supported  a  white  sculptured  figure  of  a  youth  with 
a  drooping  head. 


HIMSELF  415 

"By  all  the  powers  above,  what's  that*?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"That's  the  thing  of  which  I  told  you,"  said 
the  collector,  easily  diverted  from  his  duties.  "  I 
bought  it  from  Horn  there  for  a  song  in  Paris,  while 
he  was  distracted  by  his  twopenny  play  last  year. 
Now  he  has  woken  up,  and  wants  it  back." 

"  Clap  on  the  price  and  disappoint  him,"  advised 
Brian,  as  if  the  other  party  had  not  been  in  the  room. 
"  It's  far  too  good  to  lose,  and  it's  Brian  Clench  who 
is  telling  you." 

"  There  you  are,"  said  Gudgeon  to  Horn  with  a 
nod.  He  alluded  not  to  the  bargain,  but  the  name, 
thus  conveniently  saving  him  the  effort  of  an  intro- 
duction. 

"  I  had  suspected  it,"  said  Geoffry  politely. 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Clench?  I  heard  a  report 
you  were  in  England." 

"You  would,  I  dare  say,"  said  Brian,  pleased. 
"  You  will  be  able  to  tell  me,  Gudgeon  said.  Has 
the  little  girl  Harrie  heard  it  too?  " 

"  We  hardly  ventured  to  believe  it,"  said  Geoffry, 
remaining  quite  grave.  "Though  the  poor  boy 
did." 

"Which  poor  boy?" 

"  Your  nephew,  Patrick  Morough  —  the  sculptor 
of  what  you  are  touching." 

"Morough!"  ejaculated  Clench.     He  drew  his 


416  HERSELF 

hand  from  the  marble  as  if  it  burnt  him.  "  Tell  me 
where  to  go  and  see  him."  He  seized  his  coat. 

"  You  can  see  his  grave,"  said  Horn. 

The  man,  drawing  slowly  up  to  his  full  height, 
dropped  the  coat  again,  and  crossed  himself  mechan- 
ically. 

"God  rest  him,"  he  said  after  an  interval. 
"Where  did  he  die?" 

"  Here,  in  the  hospital,  three  days  since.  We 
buried  him  to-day." 

"  Horn,"  cried  Gudgeon,  shouldering  in,  "  and 
you  never  told  me !  Before  Heaven,  I  would  have 
gone  with  you."  (For  thus  the  collectables  draw  to 
their  kind,  without  warning,  or  any  help  but  the 
beautiful  instinct  that  unites  them,  like  the  birds.) 

"  I  could  not  speak  of  it,"  said  Geoffry,  with  per- 
fect simplicity.  "  I  only  speak  of  Pat  now,  to  cry." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Brian.  "  That  is  so."  Both 
he  and  Geoffry  turned  their  backs  for  a  moment,  he 
fondling  the  suave  lines  of  the  cold  marble  with  the 
large,  delicate  fingers  of  his  left  hand. 

"  All  that  is  left  of  him,"  he  said,  " —  and  her. 
Well !  "  Then  he  and  Geoffry  faced  one  another 
again,  and  no  one  regarded  anyone's  wet  eyes. 

"  Was  Harrie  with  you  at  the  funeral?  "  he  said. 

"  She  was.  She  insisted  against  advice,  though  it 
broke  her  down.  I  saw  her  safe  home  afterwards, 
and  there's  a  woman  with  her  there." 


HIMSELF  417 

"  She  was  right,"  said  Brian  nodding.  "  Quite 
right  to  go.  I  could  have  wished  one  of  us  to  be 
there."  He  spoke  consciously  as  the  head  of  the 
clan;  then  turned  to  the  lesser  business.  "So  you 
know  where  she  is,  Horn?  You  have  all  the 
information*?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you  most  of  it,  I  believe.  Indeed,  I 
should  prefer  to,  to  save  your  daughter." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Gudgeon  suddenly.  "  Brian, 
I'm  going  off  to  see  about  your  bed.  The  fools  must 
be  able  to  mend  it."  With  which  ridiculous  plea, 
betraying  the  most  perfect  consideration,  the  host 
vanished  in  a  lurch  from  the  room. 


Geoff ry  Horn  and  Brian  sat  down  and  talked; 
and  really,  considering  Horn's  essential  uncollect- 
ability,  the  sudden  intimacy  they  struck  up  was 
creditable.  They  had,  of  course,  to  start  with  a 
common  interest,  and  a  common  sorrow,  which 
things  make  for  intimacy  even  with  ordinary 
mortals.  But  beyond  that,  they  liked  one  another. 
Brian  was  a  breath  of  wider  air  to  Horn,  whose  late 
life  in  town  had  alarmed  and  disgusted  him,  for  he 
had  not  foreseen  the  necessity  of  acting  the  lion 
after  his  long  retreat,  and  among  the  very  society  he 
had  been  satirizing.  For  Brian,  on  the  other  hand, 
Horn  escaped  all  danger  of  being  a  caterpillar, 


418  HERSELF 

owing  to  the  facts  of  his  having  seen  Patrick  Mor- 
ough  buried,  and  bought  his  work.  The  fact  that  he 
had  written  a  successful  play  into  the  bargain  stood 
in  the  background,  not  unregarded,  but  rather 
pushed  aside  by  these  more  necessary  things. 

In  talk,  Brian  appeared  scarcely  to  attend  to 
Horn's  careful  list  of  dates  and  occurrences,  not 
bearing  directly  on  Harrie,  but  all  concerned  with 
her.  Yet  it  later  appeared  that  he  had  mastered 
them  perfectly,  and  with  Harrie  herself  he  made 
eventually  very  few  mistakes. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  came  late  on  the  scene,"  he 
observed,  in  one  of  his  flashes  of  keenness. 

"  I  could  not  leave  the  last  rehearsals,"  said 
Horn,  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  as  though 
in  remembered  distraction.  "  If  she  had  told  me 

half !  On  the  first  night  I  let  the  confounded 

thing  go  to  the  devil  its  own  way,  and  came.  I  had 
sent  my  housekeeper  before  me,  as  soon  as  I  realized 
Miss  Clench  was  here  alone.  But  that  was  late,  of 
course,  considering  how  things  were." 

"  Was  it  news  of  the  boy  brought  her  from  Far- 
over?" 

"  No,  she  did  not  even  hear  of  it  till  she  was  here 
at  the  hotel.  Then  she  went  to  the  hospital  at  night, 
and  they  would  not  admit  her." 

"Was  she  alone?"  snapped  Brian. 

"  The  first  time  —  to  my  sorrow  I  confess  it.    The 


HIMSELF  419 

second  time  an  admirable  woman  came  in  to  go  with 
her:  the  Vicar's  wife  from  Stackfield  parish." 

"  Harrie  friends  with  a  Vicar's  wife*?  " 

"  She  quarreled  with  her  husband  to  come,  so  I 
understood  from  Miss  Clench;  and  she  is  mortally 
ill  herself,"  added  Geoffry. 

"Name?"  demanded  Brian,  with  the  collector's 
eye. 

"  I  have  forgotten  it.    You  must  ask  her." 

"  How  did  she  hear  of  the  need4?  " 

"  Some  maid  at  Farover  came  to  tell  her.  It 
seems  all  the  servants  there  love  Harrie."  GeofTry 
bit  his  lip  suddenly,  but  the  excellent  father  oppo- 
site noticed  nothing.  Mr.  Clench  was  engaged  in 
pondering  on  his  recollections  of  John,  the  Escreets' 
manservant. 

"  No  doubt  I  did  the  young  fellow  injustice,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  Well,  on  my  honor,  it  makes 
Winifred's  part  in  it  look  worse." 

GeofTry's  face  altered  at  Mrs.  Escreet's  name. 
He  was  a  capable  detective,  when  he  was  once  on 
the  trail;  and  he  had  by  this  time  more  than  an 
inkling  of  the  history  of  Pat's  missing  letter.  Har- 
riet herself  had  been  too  overborne  by  distress  at  the 
news  Tom  Champion  sent  her  to  show  any  curiosity 
as  to  the  fate  of  this  all-important  missive,  which 
must  have  arrived  and  vanished  on  the  Wednesday 
of  the  Iffley  picnic.  A  scrawled  line  from  Hester  on 


420  HERSELF 

Tom's  sheet  mentioned  the  fact  of  its  arrival,  which 
Harrie  had  overlooked  or  failed  to  read.  What  be- 
came of  it,  since  it  never  reached  her  hands, 
remained  open  to  conjecture,  and  it  was  not  till 
later  that  Horn  swept  up  some  more  small  but 
salient  facts  in  the  evidence:  as  that  on  the  day  in 
question,  Harrie  had  in  the  morning  opened  by  mis- 
take a  letter  of  his  to  Mrs.  Escreet,  and  that  Mrs. 
Escreet  received  the  Vicar  at  tea  the  same  afternoon. 
He  was  not,  however,  without  strong  suspicions  at 
the  present  time:  and  a  feeling  rankled  in  him 
towards  his  proximate  hostess,  the  quality  of  which 
argued  ill  for  her  chances  of  receiving  him.  He 
began,  during  the  pause  in  the  conversation,  while 
he  teased  his  beard  with  his  long  fingers,  to  think 
out  the  phrases  of  a  note  of  excuse,  which  should  be 
sufficiently  courtly  without  committing  himself  to 
any  appearance  of  backwardness  in  his  Vanessa's 
cause.  He  spoke  no  word,  however,  of  all  these 
ideas  to  Brian,  who,  as  he  had  understood  from 
Gudgeon,  was  himself  the  old  friend  of  the  mistress 
of  Farover. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Brian  at  last,  rousing  from  a 
train  of  his  own  thoughts,  which  had  drawn  his  griz- 
zled brows  together,  "by  one  means  or  another, 
Horn,  my  girl  saw  Kathleen's  boy  before  his  end*?  " 

Geoffry  shook  his  head.  "  He  was  too  hopelessly 
ill  by  then  to  make  it  possible.  A  week  earlier  she 


HIMSELF  421 

might  have  managed  it.  They  picked  the  poor 
fellow  up  on  the  station  road  in  a  dying  condition, 
the  doctor  tolcf  me.  He  had  walked  most  of  the 
way  from  London,  according  to  his  own  account; 
and  indeed  it  was  clear,  for  his  boots  were  quite 
worn  through." 

"Poor  lad,  poor  lad.  .  .  .  And  me  nearly 
home  by  then,  with  all  this  money  upon  me."  (It 
never  came  to  Pat's  uncle's  mind,  that  some  of  the 
money  was  Pat's.) 

"  Fortunately,"  said  Geoffry,  "  he  was  found  by 
good  people,  and  wanted  for  nothing  after  that. 
And  his  death  was  quiet,  as  I  know." 

"  You  were  there?  " 

"  I  was  with  him  the  last  night,  when  he  had  a 
short  period  of  consciousness.  Miss  Clench  had 
been  tired  out,  waiting  about  all  day,  and  it  was  not 
worth  while  then  to  disturb  her.  I  was  glad,  how- 
ever, to  be  there." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Brian,  "  wanting  myself 
or  her.  Did  he  speak  any  words  that  were  sen- 
sible?" 

"  A  message  for  your  daughter,  which  I  wrote  at 
his  dictation." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Then  they  were  known  to  each  other. 
They  had  been  together  at  least,  before  this  time  we 
speak  of." 

"  So  much  as  was  possible,"  said  Geoffry,  "  they 


HERSELF 

had."  Saying  it,  his  deep-set  eyes  studied  Brian 
sadly.  Of  course,  in  the  world  as  this  man  saw  it, 
the  little  cousins  might  have  lived  together  all  the 
time,  and  never  a  thought  of  harm,  since  both  were 
Clenches.  Geoffry  granted  him  his  world,  with  all 
its  pretty  properties  of  moonlight  and  haycocks ;  but 
he  kept  his  own  more  sober  mansions,  and  longed 
for  them  to  shelter  Harrie.  It  was  for  her  peace, 
not  his  own,  he  was  contending  consciously  in  every 
word  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Brian.  "  I  am  glad  of 
that."  After  an  interval  he  rose  and  took  the  lamp 
in  hand,  to  study  once  more  the  work  of  Kathleen's 
son. 

When  he  was  far,  Geoffry  said: 
"  Will  you  visit  her  to-night,  Mr.  Clench?  " 
"  No,  no,"  said  Brian  absently.     "  Let  her  sleep 
in  peace,  with  her  little  maiden  dreams."    He  spoke 
the  soft  accents  of  Irish  a  moment,  quoting  poetry 
with  sunk  head.     "  To  think,"  he  said  presently,  "  I 
should  have  gone  through  two  worlds  to  find  the 
woman  fit  to  mount  a  horse  with  me;  and  here's  my 
own  girl  riding  as  if  she'd  been  born  to  it,  and  all 
alone." 

"  Pat  used  to  speak  of  the  horse,"  said  Geoffry, 
who  had  risen  too,  and  followed  him,  as  though 
drawn  by  the  same  charm:  a  remembered  charm  it 
was,  too,  for  this  marble  boy  was  the  very  Patrick, 


HIMSELF  423 

modeled,  as  Geoffry  knew,  upon  his  image,  and 
poignantly  expressing  a  familiar  mood. 

"  He'll  not  have  found  his  horse,  the  poor  lad," 
said  Brian,  studying  the  exiled  Cupid's  drooping 
head. 

"  He  said  he  had  not,  in  the  message  to  Miss 
Clench  I  mentioned." 

11  He'd  be  loving  her,"  said  Brian,  with  sure 
divination  of  his  own  kind.  "  I'm  loving  her  too  in 
advance,  because  of  him.  Well,  well,  horse  or  none, 
I  wish  I  could  have  known  him." 

He  sighed  heavily,  an  old  man  for  the  moment. 
Not  till  Gudgeon  came  back,  to  bring  the  news  that 
the  bed  had  been  successfully  mended,  was  Mr. 
Brian  Clench  himself  again. 


rn 


HARRIET  was  living  in  the  tiny  rooms  which  Geoffry 
had  found  for  her  off  High  Street :  to  the  occupation 
of  which  she  had  only  been  persuaded  with  infinite 
difficulty,  and  which  no  subsequent  suggestion  of 
better  quarters  could  tempt  her  to  leave.  She  had 
clung  in  the  beginning  to  her  wretched  little  hotel 
lodging,  with  an  obstinacy  that  defeated  all  the 
wiles  of  Madame  Rochette,  commissioned  by  her 
master  to  detach  her;  and  when  Mr.  Horn  himself 
followed  his  envoy  to  Oxford,  he  found  the  good 
woman  in  a  state  of  elaborate  despair. 

"  Mademoiselle  makes  her  economies,  monsieur," 
wailed  Madame  Rochette,  "  and  not  one  of  mon- 
sieur's messages,  which  I  delivered  faithfully,  will 
turn  her  from  them."  Yet  for  all  her  fair  words, 
Mr.  Horn  suspected  his  housekeeper  of  faithlessness 
in  his  cause,  for  if  Madame  had  a  private  passion 
herself,  it  was  for  the  smaller  saving,  and  her  heart 
applauded  Miss  Clench's  prudence  while  her  tongue 
condemned  her  wilfulness.  Madame  Rochette,  for 
all  her  comfortable  bulk  and  cheery  presence,  was 


HIMSELF  435 

far-sighted,  would  not  trust  fortune  a  grain,  and 
was  mildly  cynical  about  those  who  did.  She  never 
countenanced  spendthrift  ways.  Geoffry  had  long 
had  reason  to  believe,  that  even  while  she  devised 
and  dressed  feasts  for  him  in  the  Paris  days,  she 
lived  happily  on  parings  and  scrapings  herself. 
When  pressed  by  him  too  closely  on  the  subject  of 
these  tricks  to  save  his  purse,  she  was  wont  to  be- 
come portentously  gloomy,  shelter  herself  behind  a 
mythical  doctor  in  her  native  town,  and  allude  to 
the  scanty  diet  as  her  "  regime."  A  stock  of  further 
medical  details  remained  at  call,  should  she  be  forced 
to  resort  to  them;  but  this  battery  needed  rarely 
to  be  used,  for  her  shy  master's  curiosity  was  easily 
satisfied;  and  he  preferred  to  let  her  starve  according 
to  her  tastes,  rather  than  pursue  the  enquiry  further. 
However,  in  the  end,  since  the  new  rooms  were 
near,  and  not  much  more  costly  than  the  burrow  she 
had  chosen  first,  Harriet  was  persuaded  to  make  the 
change;  and  when  Mr.  Horn  still  showed  himself 
discontented  with  the  result  attained,  Madame 
Rochette  made  a  sudden  stand,  faced  about  and 
joined  the  enemy.  She  found  things  to  her  taste  in 
the  stuffy  eighteenth-century  house,  which  happened 
to  have  faded  furniture  in  the  "  Styles  "  to  which 
she  was  accustomed,  and  in  which  one  back  room 
possessed  a  comfortable  wide  hob  for  cooking. 
Having  made  this  last  discovery,  without  delay  she 


426  HERSELF 

abandoned  Geoffry  to  his  fate  at  the  hotel,  and  estab- 
lishing herself  under  the  same  roof  with  Miss 
Clench,  soon  made  friends  with  its  proprietor.  Once 
that  was  done,  all  was  accomplished.  Madame  was 
self-appointed  as  dictator,  in  all  matters  relating  to 
Harrie's  table.  Each  morning  she  issued  on  the  sur- 
prised Oxford  world,  at  an  hour  when  their  eyes 
were  hardly  open;  and  bare-headed,  her  bulky 
basket  on  her  arm,  she  ravaged  the  stalls  of  the  cov- 
ered market.  Having  few  English  words,  her 
method  was  to  seize  a  cream-cheese,  or  a  bunch  of 
asparagus,  stow  it  in  her  basket,  and  count  down 
heavy  pence  on  the  edge  of  the  market-stall,  until 
the  indignant  owner  was  satisfied.  Her  discrimina- 
tion was  terrible,  and  she  never  came  twice  to  a  stall 
which  supplied  her  with  a  bad  article.  Returning 
home  to  her  charge,  she  brought  with  her  in  the 
basket  the  wherewithal  to  prepare  perfect  meals :  in 
the  kitchen  for  courtesy's  sake,  but  by  preference  in 
her  own  quarters,  on  the  bedroom  hob.  The  land- 
lady, gaping  suspiciously  at  first  over  her  doings, 
showed  growing  respect  as  the  results  of  them  came 
to  light;  and  the  fame  of  Madame  Rochette  went 
forth  by  degrees,  whispered  through  the  agency  of 
tradesmen  to  the  neighboring  kitchens,  so  that  the 
back  premises  of  High  Street  stood  amazed. 

It  was  to  these  restricted  quarters,  the  scene  of  her 
culinary  conquests,  that  the  good  woman  brought 


HIMSELF  427 

Harrie  back  after  the  funeral,  almost  ill  with  fatigue 
and  grief.  Without  Madame  Rochette  and  her 
motherly  cares,  she  would  probably  have  collapsed 
altogether,  for  her  nerves  had  been  slowly  unstrung 
by  that  dragging  week  of  trouble.  But  there  was 
something  strangely  comforting  in  the  French- 
woman's genial  compassion,  above  all  in  her  manner 
of  treating  Pat's  death  as  a  family  loss,  not  peculiar 
to  Harrie,  but  common  to  them  all.  The  suspicion 
and  curiosity  that  had  tormented  the  girl  so  long 
were  entirely  absent  from  her  consolations:  owing 
no  doubt  in  part  to  her  having  herself  fallen  under 
the  charm  of  the  "  cher  petit,"  as  she  called  Patrick, 
in  Paris;  but  also  to  a  valiant  faith  in  her  master's 
power,  and  to  that  fine  discernment  in  matters  of 
the  heart  which  the  French  middle  ranks  possess, 
and  which  none  but  the  Irish  middle  ranks  can  equal. 

Harrie  was  still  under  her  capable  charge  and 
close  surveillance  when  Brian  found  her  the  next 
morning;  languid  still,  her  soft  eyes  shadowed  by 
a  night  of  grief,  but  sufficiently  recovered  to  eclipse 
herself  in  a  large  apron,  and  assist  Madame  Rochette 
in  the  housework. 

"  Voila  Monsieur  votre  Papa,  cherie,"  said 
Madame  Rochette,  and  let  the  large  man  in  sud- 
denly upon  her  charge;  then  she  retired  to  her 
cooking  with  strenuous  pursed  lips,  and  a  number  of 
contented  little  nods.  It  was  a  good  morning  evi- 


HERSELF 

dently:  she  had  made  several  surprising  bargains  at 
an  early  hour  while  the  carts  were  unloading,  her 
cherie  had  been  singing  again,  and  Mr.  Clench's  ap- 
pearance pleased  her.  The  dinner  must  be  worthy 
of  these  happy  events,  and  she  set  to  work. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  talk  at  length  of  the 
meeting  of  Harriet  and  Brian,  on  the  morrow  of 
Patrick's  funeral.  We  give  just  so  much  indication 
of  its  setting,  and  leave  the  couple  there,  until  the 
moment  when  Mr.  Horn  came  in,  to  find  Miss 
Clench  upon  her  father's  knee,  her  fair  head  di- 
sheveled against  his  shoulder,  and  her  large  apron 
crumpled  by  the  constriction  of  his  other  arm.  She 
was  still  pale  exceedingly,  but  her  eyes  were  serene 
as  they  lifted  to  GeofTry's,  and  as  for  Brian,  he  was 
beaming  foolishly.  Harrie  had  of  course  talked  of 
Geoffry  a  little  —  discreetly;  only  Mr.  Clench  at 
the  moment  had  not  paid  much  attention,  and  he 
showed  marked  jealousy  of  the  other  man  when  he 
appeared. 

"  We're  talking  French,  Horn,"  he  observed, 
"  and  we've  not  finished.  You  would  like  a  little 
walk  around  the  colleges  till  lunch- time,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

"  I  have  seen  the  colleges,"  said  Geoffry,  blush- 
ing. "  And  I  talk  French  very  well ;  and  it's  lunch- 
time  already  —  according  to  the  canons  of  Madame 
Rochette.  I  just  came  to  tell  you." 


HIMSELF  429 

"  Can't  she  go  to  the  devil?  "  enquired  Brian. 

"  Not  with  the  omelette  upon  her,"  said  Harriet. 
"  The  climate  would  frizzle  it,  and  you  know  you'd 
be  sorry,  Brian." 

Mr.  Clench  smiled,  still  in  a  perfectly  foolish 
fashion,  stroking  her  hair. 

"  The  voice  of  her,"  he  murmured,  "  and  me  all 
this  time  stravaguing  after  another  girl." 

"What  about  the  other  girl?"  said  Harriet  de- 
murely. "  To  be  sure  I  have  never  enquired  after 
her." 

"  I  told  old  Gudgeon  the  story  lately,"  said 
Brian,  unashamed.  "  You  shall  have  it  also  if  you 
will,  darling,  though  it's  a  sad  tale,  on  my  honor. 
You  must  know  how  she  lived,  this  girl,  in  a  tall 
gold  house,  quite  at  the  top  of  it:  and  Brian  Clench 
came  riding  by  in  the  New  York  street  among  the 
cabs,  and  saw  her  away  up  there.  Well;  and  so  he 
had  to  make  some  gold  stairs  to  get  to  her,  and  he 
made  them  one  by  one,  until  (and  it's  the  truth  I'm 
telling  you,  so  keep  that  dimple  till  it's  wanted)  he 
got  very  nearly  to  the  top." 

"Didn't  she  come  down  to  him  at  all?  "said 
Harriet. 

"She  did  not,  the  little  vixen,  for  her  reasons; 
though  she  nodded  and  seemed  agreeable  to  his 
climbing.  And  then,  one  black  day  of  fate,  he 
heard  her  speak  to  her  sister  out  upon  the  stairs." 


430  HERSELF 

"  Well,  and  then?  "  said  his  daughter. 

"  Nothing  then  —  except  she  spoke  through  her 
nose." 

Both  the  auditors  laughed  at  his  rueful  face. 

"  And  all  the  while,"  said  Brian,  seizing  the  girl, 
"  here  was  the  nicest  little  darling,  with  a  voice  like 
the  first  thrush  of  April,  waiting  for  me  unbeknown ; 
mine  entirely,  is  she  not?  —  without  any  of  the 
trouble  of  working  for  her."  He  looked  her  up  and 
down  a  minute  with  his  keen  loving  eyes,  reviewing 
every  part  of  her,  every  curl  of  her  pretty  hair,  her 
plain  black  dress,  worn  shoes  and  capable  hands. 
"  What  money  have  you  of  your  own,  I'm  wonder- 
ing," he  enquired. 

"Little,"  she  admitted,  "but  I  will  make  some 
soon.  I  have  seen  a  teacher  here  about  pupils  for 
French  —  Mr.  Horn  gave  me  a  letter  for  him.  They 
have  always  said  that  I  taught  well,  and  England 
is  better  at  paying  you  than  France." 

"  Then  I'll  not  have  to  work  for  you,"  said  Brian. 

"  I'll  manage  for  the  two,"  said  Harrie,  confi- 
dently, clasping  a  small  hand  round  his  beard.  "  If 
you  will  stay  by  me,  Brian,  and  not  go  far." 

"  But  it's  far  I  must  be  going,  me  dear,  and  that's 
the  trouble." 

"  Far?  "  Her  brow  knit  slowly.  "  And  in  which 
direction  now?" 


HIMSELF  431 

"West  —  where  else?  And  then  West  of  that 
again." 

"  To  Ireland?  "  she  cried  softly.  "  Not  further 
than  Ireland,  Brian?  " 

He  nodded  with  gravity,  though  still  his  mar- 
velous eyes  twinkled  between  their  narrowed  lids. 

"  I  had  hoped  to  have  you  here,"  she  said,  steady- 
ing her  voice,  "  in  this  nice  little  house.  I've  been 
planning  it  while  you  talked.  There's  another  room 
we  could  have,  when  Madame  Rochette  goes  to 
London  —  and  it's  not  expensive." 

"  I  doubt  if  I  can  do  it,"  said  Brian,  running  his 
disengaged  hand  in  his  pocket.  "  Would  Horn  there 
lend  us  some  to  start  with?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  alarmed,  and  seized  his  beard 
again.  "  You  are  not  meaning  it,  surely." 

"  Well,  wouldn't  he  lend  you  some  if  you  asked 
him?" 

"  No,  he  would  not.  He  would  not,  Brian.  Do 
not  listen  to  him." 

"  Isn't  she  a  jewel?  "  said  Brian  softly,  to  Horn 
for  want  of  better  audience.  "  Well,  if  he's  such  a 
hard  man,  darling,  he  need  not  be  about.  We  don't 
require  him  round  any  longer,  I  suppose.  Or  must 
we  keep  him  a  little  for  Patrick's  sake?" 

"  Yes,  yes:  for  a  little.  You  must  not  hurt  him. 
He  has  been  Patrick's  truest  friend."  Her  tears  ran 
over  suddenly. 


432  HERSELF 

"And  yours?" 

"  And  mine.  Oh,  why  am  I  crying?  —  I  do  not 
know.  It  is  since  yesterday,"  she  gasped,  hiding 
her  face  with  both  hands,  "  that  I  have  been  like 
this." 

Mr.  Horn  turned  from  where  he  stood  by  the 
window,  and  went  suddenly  out  of  the  room,  to 
scold  Madame  Rochette  about  delaying  the  dinner. 
He  could  bear  much,  and  had  borne;  and  he  was 
certain  now  her  future  was  safe,  and  her  father  only 
teasing;  but  for  all  that,  he  could  not  bear  to  see 
the  bravest  of  the  Clenches  cry. 

Of  course,  the  conspiracy  to  deceive  her  could  not 
be  kept  up:  no  joke  of  Brian's  ever  could.  After 
the  simple  lunch  —  which  it  is  true  would  have  been 
hard  to  better  —  they  had  the  most  wonderful 
dinner  the  best  restaurant  of  the  town  could 
provide  in  the  evening;  and  Geoffry  was  carefully 
not  asked  to  it :  and  Harrie,  still  in  her  black  dress, 
for  she  would  not  change  it,  was  spoilt  to  her  father's 
heart's  content,  and  shown  off  with  a  swagger  to 
all  the  hotel  afterwards.  The  next  evening  Dr. 
Gudgeon  invited  them  in  state  to  a  dinner  of  four, 
for  which  Brian  insisted  the  blue  dress  must  be  worn ; 
and  after  dinner  she  sang  them  the  whole  of  the 
Orpheus  scene  she  had  studied  with  Bertha,  and  Mr. 
Clench  left  his  accompanying  completely  at  the  most 


HIMSELF 

critical  point,  and  flung  the  music  on  the  floor,  and 
wrung  the  other  musicians  by  the  hand,  and 
whirled  about  a  chair,  and  absolutely  cried  with 
rapture.  Mr.  Horn  and  his  host  were  rather  anxious 
about  him,  but  Miss  Clench  reassured  them; 
observing  that  she  remembered  it  very  well  of  old, 
when  new  ladies  sang  to  him;  and  it  had  often 
happened  like  that.  She  seemed  capable  of  calm- 
ing him  by  an  application  of  brisk  good  sense,  such 
as  she  remembered  her  mother  using.  Whereupon 
Brian  flung  a  sofa-cushion  at  her,  and  gradually 
recovered;  but  only  to  sit  on  a  sofa  and  prophesy 
great  things  which  no  one  singer  could  possibly  ever 
accomplish  —  not  to  mention  a  series  of  teachers  to 
which  no  one  income  could  ever  rise. 

His  daughter  smiled  at  Geoff ry;  and  leaning  side- 
long in  a  deep  chair  with  one  foot  curled  under 
her,  and  a  hand  clasping  her  ankle,  she  talked  low 
to  Dr.  Gudgeon,  and  took  his  sane  advice.  There 
was  some  remote  person  in  a  small  German  town 
that  Dr.  Gudgeon  swore  by;  but  he  admitted  on 
pressure  that  the  continent  of  America  might  contain 
as  good,  especially  since  an  Italian  lady  of  world- 
wide renown  had  just  gone  out. 

"It's  not  opera,"  observed  Harriet  at  this  junc- 
ture. "  Nor  ever  will  be." 

"It's  opera,"  Brian  shouted,  leaping  up,  "and 
you'll  shut  your  impudent  mouth." 


434  HERSELF 

"  My  dear  Brian,"  she  said,  "  do  look  at  me." 
Mr.  Clench  looked  readily.  "  How  big  do  you  sup- 
pose I'd  appear  on  a  stage?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  As  big  as  you  want  to  be,"  said  Brian  greatly 
vexed.  "  You'd  have  to  act  it,  as  plenty  have  done 
before  you.  You're  none  of  my  daughter,  anyway, 
to  be  so  small.  You  can  walk,  can't  you,  and  you 
can  wear  your  clothes;  and  there's  money  behind 
you  —  money.  Well !  "  He  barked  at  her,  arms 
akimbo,  for,  after  all  his  reckless  expenditure,  he 
still  had  a  slight  fear  she  did  not  believe  it. 

"  There  are  things,"  said  Harriet,  "  your  money 
cannot  do,  dear  Brian.  And  one  is  to  make  me 
larger  than  nature  did  —  and  the  other  is  to  make 
me  do  what  I  don't  care  to." 

And,  indeed,  Mr.  Clench  had  soon  to  discover  in 
life  that  it  was  so. 

It  was  Brian,  of  course,  not  Geoffry,  who  "  dealt  " 
for  Patrick's  Cupid,  and  he  did  not  have  to  haggle 
with  the  owner.  But,  as  he  instantly  gave  Cupid  to 
Harrie,  a  difficulty  presented  itself.  They  could 
not  take  the  heavy  thing  to  Ireland,  still  less  to 
America,  and  they  had  nowhere  in  England  to  store 
it  safely.  Dr.  Gudgeon  generously  offered  to  let  it 
stand  where  it  was,  until  they  next  happened  to  be 
coming  that  way;  and  Brian,  who  trusted  and  liked 


HIMSELF  435 

him  considerably,  might  have  closed;  but  Harriet, 
they  found,  had  another  idea. 

"  I  am  going  to  lend  him,"  she  said  of  Cupid. 
"  And  it's  according  to  circumstances  —  which  I  will 
judge  of,  Brian  —  whether  I  ever  take  him  back. 
You  can  look  at  him  well  these  three  days,  do  you 
hear?  —  before  we  go  up  to  London." 

Thus,  the  three  days  and  some  others  having 
passed,  Cupid's  next  appearance  on  the  world  was 
in  Bertha's  little  flat  at  Kensington.  Harriet  found 
that  Brian  —  "  hurrying  West,"  as  he  assured  all  his 
acquaintance  —  had  allowed  a  couple  of  weeks  in 
London  in  which  to  enjoy  himself,  and  waste  money 
on  his  daughter.  She  spent  the  first  week  dutifully 
over  pieces  of  necessary  business,  of  which  three  may 
be  mentioned  as  example:  to  meet  Ann  Maskery, 
who  had  come  up  to  town,  during  a  pause  of  Tom's 
bye-election  preparations,  to  choose  the  more  solid 
part  of  her  sister's  trousseau,  with  the  skilled  assist- 
ance of  her  friend;  to  be  taken  in  state  to  see  Geoff ry's 
play,  which  now,  with  the  aid  of  a  clever  actress,  had 
settled  into  shape,  and  was  "running"  gaily;  and 
—  hardest  task  of  all  —  to  keep  Brian  from  making 
violent  love  to  Miss  Bridgnorth,  Vanessa's  charm- 
ing interpreter,  whom  they  entertained  afterwards  at 
supper,  and  who  offered  Harrie  some  useful  and 
most  kindly  hints  to  smooth  rough  corners  in  the  life 
before  her. 


436  HERSELF 

But,  necessary  business  being  accomplished,  the 
second  week  Miss  Clench  faced  her  father's  fury  with 
quietness,  and  abandoned  him  entirely  for  the  plain 
woman  Bertha  Lindt. 

The  pair  of  old  friends  talked  much  during  the 
days  they  had  together,  and  Harrie  learnt  of 
Botha's  marked  success  in  her  first  little  trial  con- 
cert, and  how  Dr.  Gudgeon  had  already  found  her 
several  pupils,  and  would  recommend  her  more,  and 
how  she  had  a  good  engagement  for  the  autumn, 
thanks  to  his  influence  with  an  important  musical 
agency.  She  learnt  of  the  Graylings,  too,  and 
Muriel,  who  had  suddenly  determined  on  her  own 
account  to  go  to  school,  much  to  the  relief  of  all 
the  neighborhood;  and  she  enquired  of  Muriel's 
mother,  the  answer  to  which  was  a  gentle  shake  of 
head. 

But  finally  and  chiefly,  they  spoke  of  the  dead 
Patrick  in  the  manner  in  which  true  friends  can: 
and  it  was  to  Bertha's  eyes  alone  that  Harrie  showed 
the  boy's  last  letter  before  she  tore  it  up.  The  brave, 
collectable  Bertha  wept  over  it  —  tears  that  were 
purely  generous  to  the  girl  that  Patrick  loved. 
"  MY  LOVE  —  MY  LITTLE  DARLING  "  —  so  it  ran : 

"  Horn  tells  me  you  are  not  to  come,  but  himself 
is  soon  to  be  with  you.  (It  is  heaven's  justice  to 
you,  and  so  I  know  that  it  is  true.)  I  will  not  send 
a  message,  but  write  this  by  Horn's  hand.  It  is 


HIMSELF  437 

better  I  should  go  out,  if  Brian  is  there  to  take  my 
place.  I  hope  still  to  see  himself,  if  all  the  saints 
are  good.  If  not,  say  that  my  love  is  his  and  yours, 
and  I  would  have  found  the  horse  to  ride  and  win 
you  —  only  I  had  not  time.  Harrie,  I  will  die  bless- 
ing you  for  that  kiss  in  the  windy  road.  .  .  ." 

"  And  whom  are  you  to  marry?  "  Bertha  whis- 
pered in  French  at  parting,  on  the  eve  of  her  last  day. 

"I  think  I  am  to  marry  Mr.  Horn,"  Harriet 
whispered  back.  "  He  will  tell  me  out  there  in  Ire- 
land, I  shouldn't  wonder." 

There  is  a  district  (west  of  the  west)  in  Donegal, 
and  I  offer  the  place  freely  to  those  who  can  find  it 
by  description.  It  has  three  levels  of  coast,  mighty 
cliffs,  against  which  the  Atlantic  throws  its  whole 
force  furiously,  day  and  night — gentle  rocks,  on 
which  the  cormorants  climb  in  sunny  weather;  and 
if  you  patiently  pursue  to  the  north  a  little  further, 
an  agreeable  bay  of  flat  yellow  sand.  A  small  way 
out  in  the  bay  there  is  an  island,  where  once  a  saint 
bathed  his  feet,  and  left  behind  him  a  healing  holy 
well.  Twice  a  day,  and  for  twenty  minutes,  this 
sacred  place  is  attainable  from  the  land,  for  the  sea 
in  retreating  leaves  a  straight  path  of  sand  un- 
covered, on  which  prudent  pilgrims  can  walk.  But 
pilgrims  must  be  prompt,  and  are  advised  to  go 


438  HERSELF 

barefoot,  and  not  even  then  to  delay  too  long  on 
the  island,  whether  they  wish  to  ask  a  blessing  at  the 
well,  or  to  leave  the  customary  offering  of  a  crooked 
pin  upon  it.  (There's  no  trouble  in  procuring  these, 
as  pins  are  all  crooked  in  Ireland.)  If  they  allow 
themselves  to  be  distracted,  whether  by  piety  or  other 
things,  pilgrims  in  returning  will  certainly  get  wet. 
People  do  get  distracted  in  such  places,  as  the 
p'lgrims  we  are  concerned  with  found;  but  though 
one  got  wet  in  the  skirts  returning,  because  she 
refused  to  be  carried,  they  had  accomplished  all  they 
needed.  For  it  was  on  this  remote  islet,  west  of  the 
west,  that  Mr.  Horn  "  told  "  Harriet  between  the 
tides ;  and  for  such  healing  of  all  their  sorrows,  they 
each  left  a  pin  —  fine  straight  ones  that  Miss  Clench 
provided  —  upon  the  kind  saint's  well. 


'..'a 


AUG 


YB  6V4b5 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


